hk2:judgment about you

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Box Office: ‘Hidden Figures’ Takes $1.2 Million in Thursday Night Expansion
Fox’s historical drama “Hidden Figures” took in $1.2 million from 2,250 new locations on Thursday night previews as it expands into wide release. “Hidden Figures,” centered on a group of female Afr…
By Dave McNary

Fox’s historical comedy-drama “Hidden Figures” took in a solid $1.2 million from 2,250 new locations on Thursday night previews as it expands into wide release.

“Hidden Figures” has been forecast to pull in between $16 million to $18 million this weekend as it moves to 2,471 locations Friday. The awards season contender has a modest $25 million budget with a cast including Taraji P. Henson, Octavia Spencer, Janelle Monae and Kevin Costner. Pharrell Williams wrote several new songs for the movie.

Friendly Reminder

Eren Jaeger is a teenager who is still exploring the world, still growing up, still developing himself, and is a flawed human being, who isn’t perfect in any kind of way, but is human, and that’s what makes him a good character.

Simple labels such as “good person” or “bad person” don’t reflect the complexity of his character (or any of the characters, for that matter). Isayama has written this message in so many different ways throughout his story. He doesn’t want his characters to be seen as just “bad guys” or “good guys”. He wants them to be seen as human beings, who are different from each other, but their differences don’t necessarily mean one has to be good and the other is bad.

Just because a character is a pure, angelic godsend, who did nothing wrong, doesn’t make them a good character.

Just because a character is literally the descendant of Satan, doesn’t mean they’re a bad character.

Don’t erase the character’s complexity by using simple terms such as “good” and “bad”, or “right” and “wrong”. 

A well-written character isn’t just “a good person who fights evil”. People aren’t born to the world with those labels, people don’t just do things like that. People learn, they develop, they experience things, see the world, all of which makes them the person they are today. Their development is constant, the person they are now is not necessarily who they will be in the future.

Characters in SnK are humane, their complexity surpasses the shallow judgment, and that’s what makes them good characters. They don’t need to be perfect, they don’t need to be nice, or right. They’re far more than just that, and it’s amazing.

In short words I love Eren Jaeger so much. He’s a complex, flawed and well-written character, and I will support him till the end.

anonymous asked:

I'm honestly confused about why you and other people on the internet think that INTJ and ENTP are such a good match. Aren't ENTPs famous for being dishonest (for "fun") low key emotionally manipulative (Or just plain emotionally manipulative) and for struggling with intimacy and authenticity issues? I know that I'm pointing out only the flaws here, but these are some of the top most annoying flaws to me, an INTJ. Maybe its just me but I don't see how INTJs stand anything but a healthy ENTP.

Absolutely. I hear ya, but you’re being judgmental, and you’re assuming that ENTPs as a whole have every single one of these flaws. That’s not true. 

ENTPs don’t only have one setting of being dishonest for fun and emotionally manipulative. Additionally, given that most ENTPs are fundamentally lazy because we tend to search for most direct routes anyway, I would say that most of the time, when we’re being emotionally manipulative we don’t realize because we’re emotionally detached from the situation. This literally only happens with people we don’t like. Not with an INTJ we’re attracted too. 

The thing is, ENTPs need friends and relationships with people who are in touch with the emotions more than we are. We really don’t realize how detached we are until someone (who’s close to us and we trust) points it out. The ‘dishonest for fun’ thing is just sarcasm when we’re around close friends and family. If you know your ENTP well, then they probably won’t lie to you… and when they’re being sarcastic, you should be able to know it and actually understand what they’re saying. 

I have some really close INTJ friends. They know me well and knew my joking voice. They’re smart and practical and pretty damn arrogant. I’m also smart and practical (though I don’t think I’m as arrogant), but I added a lot of creativity to our conversations. I got them out and at the parties since I knew everyone. One of them was quite judgmental, and often times I tried to help her see the other side of the situations, which would help her calm down. I could be cold to people I didn’t like, and she would point this out to me and give me logical routes to dealing with unwanted attention without being manipulative. We really don’t mean to be mean. 

These two types actually bring a lot to each other. And when an ENTP is in a relationship with someone they like or love, they are loyal, caring, creative and fun, but honest and straightforward. It doesn’t sound like you know any ENTPs though.. and if you did meet one you almost definitely wouldn’t recognize these flaws straight off the bat anyway. 

Honestly, ENTPs would prefer a healthy INTJ too, but health is grand like that. It’s preferable. 

When you see this post an excerpt from a WIP!

Fuck. Okay. I saw this through @unicornsandbutane . Uh. So. Remember that Spiritassassin past life dreaming AU I was talking about? It. Uh. Goes something like this.

(Sorry this is huge. This was going to be a chapter. They didn’t say how long the excerpt had to be and I don’t know when I’ll next get to this because I’m…well…me.)

Context: force sensitive people in one life dream about their past lives. Baze and Chirrut dream about one another. Baze denies this. Heavily. That some new age shit.

He meets Chirrut for the first time after dreaming about him dying in his arms.

Chirrut has retinitis pigmentosa. He can still see but is in the process of becoming fully blind. Baze doesn’t know.

Okay. I- Uhm…

/VAGUE PRESENTING GESTURES
——–
——–

The client can smile as much as he wants as long as he pays is a personal rule.

Baze is starting to question that rule.

He is hours in and halfway through being swallowed by the innards of a sink that probably hasn’t been replaced or altered in more than fifty years, and still can’t make head or tail out of what the client actually wants him to do.


“If,” the man says, still smiling like the sun, “if I wanted to make the house safe for a blind person, how would it be modified?”


Baze grunts something about the stairs and keeping a clear floor. None of which particularly requires an interior contractor. He sees no reason to lie about the difficulty of his work when the man is probably just looking to sell a house.


“If I wished to install disabled ramping what would I do?“


Baze grunts again.

Not enough space for ramping. Install a chair lift like everyone else.


“If I-”


Pipes and wiring,” Baze interrupts, his patience narrowing.


“Come again?”


The tilt of the other man’s head is birdlike, cheerful. The nightmare from the night before has unsettled Baze too much to be easily shaken. He rubs his forehead to clear it, feeling the start of a headache.


“Old house, old wiring,” Baze grunts.


“And…what does that mean?”


Baze sighs through his nose, and pulls his glasses back on. He dislikes doing so. Dislikes the looks of amusement he gets while holding documents at arms-length and studying layouts even more.

He hates old manses. The owners are either stingy or gullible, and rarely know what needs to be done.

If this guy wants a pretty interior job he should have called Jyn first, gutted all the beautiful wood paneling, the antique tiling of the floors and remade with a modern interior, calling him up when they were done. Baze chews on the end of his pen in distaste.


“Means the house came first. Electricity came later.” He thinks of the trio of children he saw giggling together on the trolley, barely six years old, watching a video on their parent’s phone. “And usage has gone up. You want that done first.“


The owner just gazes at him, eyebrows lifted.

He has no idea what he is talking about, obviously.

Baze taps the sink in the kitchen on the print.


“Is this an original?”


“I don’t have the slightest idea,” the other man laughs.


He comes uncomfortably close to see the print, then turns his head to look at Baze. He is grinning at the beaded chain for his glasses. Librarian comments incoming, no doubt.

Baze’s mother would have knocked his knees out from under him with a volume of the Britannica, and she was barely five feet tall, with a limited grasp of English–-a textbook example on why quiet wasn’t the same as peaceful and neither were librarians.

Baze foregoes the commentary by folding the print back under his arm.

Might as well take a look.

Judging by the sink fixtures, the kitchen had a rehaul during the sixties. He wrinkles his nose as he opens the cabinet, pulling out bottles.

He half-expects to find a bag of weed somewhere under the sink. Keeps his nose out for the stink of it.

The client’s perpetual smile makes him seem the type.

He half-expects protests, the defensiveness of a dealer.

The stillness and the slight creeping sensation down his spine makes him crane his head back to find said client instead matter-of-fairly checking out his ass.

Baze snorts.

Well. That’s this city for you.

Nobody has much to look at in steel-toed work boots and tan coveralls. And Baze has even less to look at these days. He’d once been a trim man. Now he’s just a sad forty-year-old nearsighted divorcee checking the nuts of an S-pipe as a favor to a brilliant young architect who’d found him at random by looking up welders in the phone book.

Jyn Erso is twenty-two, driven, and all business. Something more than a client. A grudging friend. He’d done all-night work with her in near-silence together for her grad display. You don’t pull rush jobs like that for just anyone.

They meet once a week for drinks. They aren’t what he’d think of as particularly close friends because Jyn has a guardedness to her that tells you it isn’t a date, and if you try anything she’d crack your nose and leave you in the hospital. Not that Baze would try anything. But there is something particularly depressing about meeting up with an attractive and intelligent young woman who talks shop, having a nice evening, and then going home alone to your own unfinished house.

When Jyn had said her best friend needed to have his house looked at for renovations, Baze had had the sinking feeling that that was it, that he was being couched into approving of some future boyfriend, herded headlong into some sort of fatherly role.

He did not expect Chirrut Îmwe, answering the door before he could knock.


“You’re the inside man?“


Baze had blinked.


“Something like that.”


“Chirrut. Chirrut Îmwe.”


His handshake had been firm, vigorous, his hands as calloused as Baze’s.


“You’re…Blaze Malbus?”


Baze,” Baze corrected with the long patience of a lifetime with an unusual name.


He’d kept clean-shaven and his hair close-cropped for years to try to cut down on the drug dealer jokes. He’d been a child during the Haight-Ashbury days, and still had never taken a hit. Straight A student. Good future.

Then his father had died when he was seventeen, and someone needed to bring in money for the house.

He knows all about how being good at something doesn’t cancel out bad luck, how the unexpected normally goes hand-in-hand with ‘unpleasant’.

In fact, Chirrut is unexpected in a lot of ways.

Trim black turtleneck. Woven bag. Loose pants and sandals. A red wrap around his waist that’s got an interesting and subtle woven texture to it. Clean-shaven. Close-haired. Chinese, like him, which had been another surprise. And definitely older than fresh-faced Jyn, though he has the peculiar agelessness to him that comes with a heavy fitness lifestyle. Probably another fucking righteous vegan, Baze thinks.

He thinks again of his dream, the details all blurred together, just a lingering sense of unease, of loss. Something that makes him want to wipe his fingernails on his coverall and expect to be talked down to by another idiot who doesn’t know which way a screw turns but makes more money than him and believes that’s because he’s lazy. Unintelligent.

The bad dream seems to be leaking into his sense of the man. He’s seen plenty of people like Chirrut. Has been checked out by far more intimidating-looking ones.

Baze wonders with a snort if he’s being set up, if Jyn has made some assumptions. Unlikely. Jyn usually keeps her head down when it comes to the affairs of others.


“I’m not that kind of plumber,” Baze says, too tired to keep any real heat in his voice.


Chirrut gives a bark of laughter that’s completely unselfconscious, a smile that’s much too even not to have been set that way as a child, with plenty of complicated orthodonture. Money, Baze thinks a little bitterly. Something he doesn’t have much of even before the ex-wife remarried, stopped demanding alimony in advance, and filed a totally unnecessary restraining order.


“Aah, well, you never know,” Chirrut breezes.


He is so blithe even Baze has to snort.


“Try turning the water on,” Baze mutters.


Chirrut steps over to the sink and Baze listens to the pipes, squints with his little penlight tucked behind his ear, the red beads of the chain clinking on pipe.


“Pour a glass for me. I want to check the clarity. Something transparent.”


Chirrut shuffles slightly above him.


“Don’t worry. There’s beer in the refrigerator if you get thirsty.”


“Beer,” Baze repeats.


Chirrut gives a noncommittal noise.

The only thing that’s thirsty here is you, Baze thinks a little uncharitably, making his way gingerly out from under the sink and unbending slowly, and with a wince.


“You don’t seem the type.”


Chirrut’s face shifts into comic dismay.


“My feelings are grievously injured and I rescind the offer of my specialty homebrew. You can drink out of the sink.”


Baze laughs, despite himself.


“That your business?”


“A hobby.”


Something odd has passed into the man’s face, the smile sagging at the corners.

Baze doesn’t ask.

Somehow it doesn’t surprise him that Jyn befriended a microbrewer.


“It was once women’s work, you know, the making of beer,” Chirrut calls.


His voice is a little too loud and bright in the low space.

Baze considers this tidbit, and how he’s probably supposed to react to it. What might be hinted and what might not be.


“Don’t tell that to Jyn,” he decides on.


Chirrut rips out another laugh, this one with a wicked edge.

He has a great laugh, Baze thinks absently. He must have caused plenty of trouble in his time.
This too doesn’t surprise him in terms of Jyn’s choice of friends.

Against his better instincts he finds himself oddly okay with being watched by this hovering fellow. Always asking questions about what he’s doing, why he’s doing it. It should be annoying. Somehow it isn’t, comforting to talk about tangible things with that lingering dream hanging over top of him. The sense of incoming, inevitable failure and loss.

Baze often dreams of failure.


“How did you meet?“ Chirrut asks out of the blue, after hip-checking a table by accident.


Clumsy, Baze notes. Like anything that isn’t directly in front of him isn’t there.


"Hm?”


“You and Jyn.”


Baze is surprised at the heavy, intent look on the other man’s face. Blinks as he realizes.

Oh.


“Phone book.” Baze grunts, “Under ‘Welders’.”


Nothing weird, he wants to add. Doesn’t, since he’s sure somehow that would make it worse.

…Is he actually going to be given the shovel talk by a Five-foot-Eight beatnik?

Baze doesn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Jyn is a very pretty girl, with a good head on her shoulders. Nice tits, too, if he’s completely honest. She could do a lot better than him for sure. He hopes, in a blaze of worry, that she knows it. Good God does he hope it.

He blinks.

The rising, tight tilt of the other man’s chin is very much like Jyn’s.


“You?” Baze asks, trying to keep the uneasy frown off his face.


“Destiny,” the other says.


Baze laughs before considering whether he’s supposed to. A dry noise.


Really.”


The corners of Chirrut’s mouth go mercifully up. He leans back against the counter.


“I wandered into the grad installations by accident and she almost murdered me with a power sander.”


He makes it sound like the most casual and reasonable thing in the world. Baze swallows down another laugh.


“Get out.”


“That’s what she said,” Chirrut deadpans back, dislodging Baze’s laugh from his throat despite himself. Despite how utterly cheesy it is. Chirrut, he notices, turns his whole face like a cat when he peers at him. A flicker of surprise.


“…Have we met before?” Chirrut asks faintly, something uncertain in his features.


Baze snorts, shaking his head.


“Definitely not.“


Chirrut frowns but goes on with a shrug.


"Anyway, my Tai Chi was completely ruined, I offered her free self-defense lessons to compensate her for the fright, and we’ve gotten along famously ever since.”


Baze makes a listening noise.

The thought of anyone weaponizing Jyn Erso’s anger is completely terrifying. He’s half-convinced Jyn’s lambent rage is its own renewable energy source.


“You give her your beers?”


Chirrut gives him a look of practiced disdain his mother would have been impressed by.


“Forget I asked.” Baze mutters, shrugging.


“Have you met Galen Erso?”


Chirrut’s dark eyes are narrow, intent. Without the easy smile his whole face is narrow and long, proud-looking somehow. Something in the combination of lips and chin and brow.

Baze searches his memory for the name. Finds nothing with a slow shake of his head.


“Who?”


“The father,” Chirrut’s chin tilts up again, a slow fury in his dark eyes.


Baze frowns, guessing.


“…Alcoholic?”


“Mm,” Chirrut agrees, his chin set and stubborn like a little fist, “The quiet kind.”


Baze considers this more carefully, a slow frown settling. Next Thursday he’ll relocate them to a cafe, he thinks. Cut down on the girl’s intake. Someone has to take care of her.


“You try talking to her?”


Chirrut gives a sharp laugh again.


“Have you tried stopping Jyn from doing something before?”


Baze thinks. Chirrut’s already grinning, shaking his head, utterly fond.


“When Jyn Erso rebels, the whole world follows,” the man says.


Baze frowns. He’s starting to realize why a thirty-something-looking bohemian fitness freak of a man in a Bill Gates turtleneck is Jyn’s best friend.


“I have Thursdays,” Baze says stubbornly.


“Are you serious?” Chirrut laughs.


“Your day must be either Tuesday or Wednesday–”


“It’s Friday, actually,” Chirrut cuts him off, the laughter still in his eyes. He looks utterly unintimidated. Amused, even, arms folded across his stomach.


“Then if she matters to you–”


Good God, you’re like an old woman,” Chirrut interrupts, laughing.


Baze’s fingers tighten. He’s a big man, and he knows it.

Chirrut is not, and still meets his look without an ounce of fear, a blasé arrogance. Baze notes suddenly the outline of his shoulders. The trimness of his waist, remembers he’d said self defense classes.


“Jyn’s an adult. She does her work and does it well. Life doesn’t end because of a bit of Black Porter on a Friday Night,” Chirrut says, shaking his head slightly.


Baze’s disapproval sits heavy in his belly, welling up in frustration. A great weight of words he can’t say to a stranger, a friend of a friend.


“I can see why you and Jyn are friends,” he settles for, leadening it with the full force of his disapproval.


Chirrut shrugs, a manic glitter in his eye.


“I like a straightman with me when I cause my trouble,” he pauses, inclines his head with a smile, “Or woman.”


Baze lets out a breath in disgust.

He bets it’s the same bar on Friday. He has half a mind to make the time to fish them both out. A growing protectiveness.


“Don’t drag Jyn down with you in whatever trouble you get into.”


Chirrut makes a rude noise, his dark brows knitting irritably,
Yes, mother hen. Will that be all?”


It comes so sharply, so abruptly Baze just stands there for a moment, realizing how far he’s overstepped.

He almost wants to apologize. Feels the sting instead of the comparison. Dismissal.

Baze bits down his words.


“…I’ll send you an estimate.”


“Well, good. You stay right there and estimate,” Chirrut drawls, bumping the same table, catching the same vase, “while I get you a crate.”


Baze blinks.


“A…what?”


“You need a drink!” Chirrut hollers down the hall, “You need about five drinks!”


“I don’t need anything!” Baze yells back.


He winces at the sound of his own voice.

Chirrut Îmwe has apparently gone selectively deaf.


“I don’t accept drinks from strange men,” Baze mutters, a little hot around the ears when he realizes the other man is indeed bringing up a loose crate filled with dark bottles.


“Then it’s a good thing I’m a painfully ordinary man cursed with spectacular beauty,” Chirrut replies back, making a face, “and not at all strange.”


Baze doesn’t laugh. Can’t. Caught by a strange sense of panic.

Chirrut taps a finger against the little barrel, something challenging in his dark eyes.


“Stardust Ale. Last year’s vintage. It’ll give you something to talk about with my friend.”


“I…can’t accept this,” Baze says quietly.


Chirrut is waving him off with a noise of irritation, shoving the thing into his hands.


“Go on. Get lost. Make your estimates. Come back when this,” he taps the crate, “is gone. Get drunk with some friends. This is my number,” he’s scrawling something large and loose on the side of the wood.

Baze gives him one last, exasperated look as he does so, as he’s manhandled to the door by prodding and pushing hands.

“And wear something different next time,” Chirrut adds, calling after him down the steps to the tilted street, “You look like a Ghostbuster!“

my new year’s resolution of making small changes and not looking at days in a black and white sense of “aww you fucked up!!! time to wallow!!!” is actually working really well bc I have a splitting headache and also ate a ton of junk food at work but I dragged myself to the gym and climbed my first V1 so

.

You ended up here for a reason, okay? Things didn’t just happen. You took some wrong steps, you made a few bad decisions. But none of it was accidental. It’s called life. You make choices and sacrifices and then you deal with the shitstorm that might follow. You’re human. You’re here, you’re alive so you can accept help. You’re here because you were still strong enough to fight. So if you can’t find your way out of this hole, or if you need help or a hand to hold, or if you just want someone to talk to, I will be that someone. Call me at three in the morning if you aren’t feeling right. Call me if you need a good laugh. Call me if you want to talk about something, anything, if you wanna talk about the disgusting goodness and satisfaction of eating cheesy fries or the awfully sickly smell of a new carpet. Call me if you don’t feel like yourself. Call me if you need a reminder of why you’re here, or what you mean, of why you matter.
—  Probably the best advice I’ve ever given.
I get annoyed about applications of the word ‘feminine’ as a particular kind of cultural judgment. Mostly, as far as my work is concerned, I hear that word used as an umbrella term for elements of it that are often described as 'fragile’, 'ephemeral’, 'pale’, 'impermanent’. What a massive insult. The fact that anyone might think that I would set forth such connotations is an affront to me. I wonder if anyone ever thinks that the massive scale of a lot of the works, the weight of them, the tonnage of materials involved, the physical labour and the endurance inherent within them are 'feminine’?
Does anyone ever describe the works of Franz West as 'feminine’? He uses a lot of pinks and powder blues. Or Richard Tuttle? A lot of his works are very small and fragile and light. Or Jeff Koons, with all his bows and rosettes and cuddly toys? Obviously there’s some sort of wilful blindness going on, and it makes me wonder whether to label a work 'feminine’ is a veiled insult. Still, in the contemporary art world, only women’s work is gendered. The work of a male artist is always an acceptable norm and anything else is 'other’, even though in reality it’s all exactly the same. Female and male artists both have aspects of 'femininity’ and 'masculinity'—for want of better descriptions, since those categories are completely made up anyway—in all of their works.
—  Karla Black, in conversation with Barry Schwabsky, 2014