how can we not love ted

  • The Supergirl promo team: but can you trust a luthor 👀👀👀😉😉😉
  • Everyone in national City: she's just like her brother
  • Lena Luthor: *gives Ted talks, organizes charity events in which she also stops bad guys, worked out of a basement trying to cure cancer, saw teleportation tech and immediately went to how it could help people*
  • Everyone: we just can't tell if she can be trusted
Dear Journal,

This morning I cooked breakfast with Sirius for Teddy. It was his first morning home after all. We cooked eggs and bacon and potatoes and Sirius got fresh fruits from the market. I was setting the table when Teddy woke up. He had his messy bed hair and his cheeks were flushed from his sleep.

“Goodmorning Baby. How did you sleep?” I asked.

“Oh I eh.. I slept well..” He said, not looking into my eyes.

“Teddy is everything okay?” Sirius asked, also noticing how weird he was acting.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you guys about something… Can we sit?” Teddy asked, playing with his fingers.

“Yes sure. What’s up?” Sirius said.

“It’s hum.. I wanted to tell you guys before and I’m so sorry I haven’t because I feel bad that I’ve hid it from you and… I.. I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I think i’m bisexual…” He said, looking down.

His eyes were getting glossy and his bottom lip was shaking.

“Teddy my love that’s totally fine! Don’t cry honey..” I said standing up and hugging my son.

“We know how hard it is to say it Out loud Ted… But everything is fine now. We will love you no matter what!” Sirius said, joining the hug.

“T-Thank you…” Teddy said, wipping away his tears.

“You know you can tell us anything baby yeah?” I said.

He nodded and the tip of his dark brown hair switched to purple.

“I’m so proud of you my sweet boy.” I said, brushing my fingers in his hair.

“So… Does that mean you have someone in your heart?” Sirius smirked.

“Well, maybe…” Teddy smiled, blushing.

“Tell us! Do we know them?” Sirius asked, getting excited.

“Yes.. but don’t freak out..” Teddy said as we started eating our breakfast.

“Why would we freak out? His it a Malfoy?” Sirius asked, frowning.

“No… Actually, It’s James Sirius.. We kissed for the first time last night.” Teddy smiled and blushed, waiting for a reaction.

Sirius and I weren’t suprised but we were so happy!

“Yes! James owes me ten bucks!” Sirius yelled.

“You knew?” Teddy asked.

“Well you guys kept blushing and smiling around eachother and let’s say James spent his Hogwarts years around us secretly being in love … We kinda knew a bit.” Sirius laughed.

“So you’re not mad?” Teddy asked.

“Why would we be mad my love? James Sirius is such an amazing boy and I would love to have him in our little family!” I said, taking Teddy’s hand.

“Okay.. Thank you for being so supportive… I love you..” Teddy smiled.

“Oh we love you too my little baby..” I said.

“We love you more than anything!” Sirius added, smiling brightly.

“But I promised him that you would keep it to yourselves for a bit… He’s not entirely ready to tell his parents. I didn’t want to rush him but I wanted to told you guys so could you just, wait a bit?” Teddy asked, playing with his fingers.

“Of course love. We understand completely. We’ve been through the same stuff and you’re doing the right thing. The only way you can help him is by encouraging him and letting him some time to be ready.” Sirius said.

“Okay.. Thank you dads..”.

“Now let’s eat that delicious breakfast!” I laughed, attacking my plate.

We ate our breakfast and decided to have a family day, just like old times. Blanket fort, movies, popcorn and pyjamas.

June 7th 2014


Happy Birthday to French philosopher, Simone de Beauvoir! 

“Love lets us reach beyond ourselves.”

Simone de Beauvoir proposed that love is the desire to integrate with another and that it infuses our lives with meaning.  However, she was less concerned with why we love and more interested in how we can love better.  She saw that the problem with traditional romantic love is it can be so captivating that we are tempted to make it our only reason for being.  Yet, dependence on another to justify our existence easily leads to boredom and power games.  

To avoid this trap, Beauvoir advised loving authentically, which is more like a great friendship: lovers support each other in discovering themselves, reaching beyond themselves, and enriching their lives and the world, together.

From the TED-Ed Lesson Why do we love? A philosophical inquiry - Skye C. Cleary

Animation by Avi Ofer

But love doesn’t make sense. You can’t logic your way into or out of it, love is totally nonsensical. But we have to keep doing it or else we’re lost and love is dead and humanity should just pack it in. Because love is the best thing we do.
—  ted mosby doing the thing he does best, talking about love

Okay but: if Ted has a secret identity and Booster doesnt, so whenever someone asks how they met they have to lie. Booster always makes up some grand rescue where he was dashing and brave and Ted fell for him on the spot. And Ted cant say shit. He cant refute his lie. So as revenge whenever he gets the chance he makes up some bullshit mundane story, all with Booster doing something embarrassing. They have a competition for who can get to the ‘how we met’ story first, bc the other one gets stuck with that story for as long as they know the other people. There are dozens of different stories about them floating around.



Ah, the last “favourite outfits”. Sorry this one has taken me so long, I honestly was finding it difficult to figure out my favourite outfits. What were your 7B faves?

Emily: Topshop jacket/Topshop boots/Equipment blouse/Rebecca Minkoff bag

Emily was stuck in her swim coach uniform or just a boring jean & tee combo for pretty much all of 7B, so I went with her only outfit that I liked more than usual, from “Hold Your Piece”. It’s still typical Emily, but I like the edginess of the black with the burgundy (I love Emily in Burgundy) and a choker to top it all off. The boots were a nice change from her usual style and I love the zipper bag by Rebecca Minkoff she carried.  

Spencer: Elizabeth and James jacket/Kimchi Blue dress/Tory Burch shoes/Street Level bag

Choosing a favourite Spencer outfit this season was actually really difficult, because the pickings were slim. Most of her outfits were boring and we saw her be more casual this season. This outfit from “Power Play” isn’t one of my top Spencer outfits, but it’s honestly the best she had this season. I loved the adorable Kimchi Blue denim dress with the back detailing she wore.

Alison: Equipment top/Peggy Li necklace/Ted Baker bag

Alison was another person who bored me this season, but surprisingly less than she normally does. She had a few great fashion moments I can think of, but this outfit from “The Glove That Rocks The Cradle” was definitely my favourite. I love how youthful this is, with the pastel shades and that lovely pink moto jacket. Usually we see her in sandals, so the grey suede booties were appreciated. I would have loved to have seen more of these kinds of outfits from Alison.

Aria: Nasty Gal top/Topshop skirt/AllSaints jacket/Kate Spade shoes/The2Bandits earrings/The2Bandits bracelet/Rebecca Minkoff bag

Aria started off as someone who’s style was way too out there for me, then after the time jump, her style actually became my favourite. I could think of a few favourites from Aria this season, but in the end I chose this outfit from “Playtime”. I love powder blue, so any outfit with that colour pretty much alway gets a thumbs up from me. I really like the pairing of the twee skirt and bow-tied shirt with the edgier leather jacket and jewelry. To top it all off, her hair looks amazing with these kinds of looks.

Hanna: Topshop jacket/Topshop boots/Coach bag/Annais.Co necklace

Hanna’s bomber jacket obsession this season did start to bore me a little, but she has had some great outfits. I chose this outfit from “Driving Miss Crazy”. A powder blue suede biker jacket? You had me at “powder blue”. I love the funky fringed boots, her beachy hair and that she didn’t over accessorize because those boots and that jacket do enough talking. I also think the colour goes great with her features, it contrasts her blonde hair nicely and matches her eyes.

Mona: Topshop coat/Zara top

One word: Oui. I said before I saw it on-screen this outfit from “Till DeAth Do Us PArt” would probably end up being my favourite Mona outfit this season and I was right. Love the trench coat, and the cute monochrome lace blouse/mini skirt combo Aria also loves to wear. The beret while living in France is so Mona.

You know, I was looking in the Stydia Big Bang tag (very excited for the new fics! and art!), and the most recent posts were people going into this anti-Stydia pro-Sterek blog’s ask and basically making fun of Stydia fans for having a Big Bang, and the blog user replied that they were excited to see the art because they thought it would be so bad it would be funny.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t been in high school for years, but I really don’t understand why some people feel the need to shit on other people for loving something. Like really. I used to watch How I Met Your Mother and I hated Ted/Robin with a passion. But I never judged people for liking them, you know? I might argue with them, but it was all in good fun. Because that’s what this is supposed to be. Fun. And when the show ended and they got together, I just left the How I Met Your Mother fandom because it reframed how I saw the entire show and I didn’t like it anymore. I didn’t stick around and bitch about how much the show sucked and mock people who liked Ted/Robin. When I find a fellow Barney/Robin fan, I’ll commiserate about it with them…but then we move on? Because it’s a TV show?

Look, anti-Stydia fans. I get that some “Stydiots” can be a pain in the ass. There are some people on Twitter that I wouldn’t be caught dead associating with, they’re so hateful and vile. But honestly most of us don’t care about harassing other fans, we’re focused on how much we love our ship. And for the record, we do make great art. We don’t have quite the fanfiction community that Sterek does, because we’ve had plenty of Stydia moments on the show to satisfy us (though I suspect now that the show is ending/Stiles is pretty much leaving the show more people will turn to fanfiction and the community will grow), but it’s an awesome and talented community none the less. @rongasm is a legend who regularly drops 20k+ fics without warning like Beyonce. And our video editing community is by far the most active, prolific, and in my opinion talented community of the Teen wolf video editors. And the graphic art  and edits on Tumblr are amazing.

I guess my point is why are you wasting your time being snide about a really, really amazing event that is being put on by great, hardworking people, whose only purpose is to celebrate something that a lot of people love? It literally does not hurt you. It is so much more fulfilling to love things than it is to shit on other people for loving things. 

Originally posted by wendywilliamsgifs

e-t-e-r-nal  asked:

Although I think the Pastor Ted being Charlotte's dad theory is really random. Is a reach but in s06e11 when Charlotte is in Welby they focus on a teddy bear on charlottes bed. That could have been a subtle clue. And then with Charlotte dying in the church could be hint to where she came from? So she has connection to the church aka Ted. I'm not convinced but is just something I noticed

OH MY GOD. We’ve seen little Charles and his teddy bears a few times. I can just picture a flashback with little Charles. “It was a gift from my dad”. How cute!!! Wow, good idea!

And yeah I’m suspicious of Ted killing Charlotte now, since we know it happened in a church

You sent this in before the reveal that he is Charlotte’s father - how does it feel now!? I said it was too random, too. Yet, here I am loving it. 

May 3, 1987

God, our faces look young.
Mark, your goof-smile, teeth overlapping your bottom lip,
belying how incredibly smart you were—how tinged with genius,
and yet unhinged.

Your eyes,
not looking into the camera,
but down and to the left. Watching the floor.
Were you planning your untimely exit, even then?

Your arm is around Christine. Ah, Chris.
You’re staring right at the camera
and there’s no fixing your red-eyes. You’re looking at
the guy taking the picture, my then-boyfriend.

Patrick. Your now-husband. Looking at my easy grin,
looking forward to the after-grad party at Jim’s house,
not realizing Pat had already fallen,
and you had fallen back, with him. My eyes can’t see the

energy between you. How could they? How could any
of us see what would happen next? Chris, your arm around me,
my pink graduation dress, gladiator sandals, my eyes
a happy mixture of box-wine in a flask and the promise

of a back-seat dry-hump with Pat later
in the evening. My eyes and smile time-stamped at
6:43 p.m., May 3rd, 1987—our moment,
thinking back at the confusion in my eyes Mark must have seen,
the tremble in my lips at the party

when Mark told me, goof, gone from his smile, that
you and Pat had left the party together. No good-bye.
Then me, fucked up on pot and shots,
fucking Matt Wells in the back of his karmann ghia,

and what a fucking trick that is,
if you know anything about those cars,
to feel better. To not think of Pat’s promises to you, instead of
me. You wrote in my yearbook,

I don’t ever want to hurt you.
I read that, and thought it a testament to our
friendship. How could I know it was a
preemptive mea culpa, a “sorry, not sorry,”

even back then. Pat didn’t write in it. Was that a show of dignity, or
cowardice? I smile into the camera, but my eyes are
green, not red. It’s funny, Chris, the import I placed for
so long, on your red-eyed image, after graduation night.

As if the camera pronounced you “demoness”
for me, while my tear-stained cheeks stared at
our group for weeks after, smiling, hats still on, tassels on the
right side of adulthood at last. And then you, Ted.

Teddy. Your arm around me.
Your eyes didn’t have green or red.
Brown eyes, soulful, your smile subdued. Yours didn’t look left and
down like Mark’s did. But both of you were gone by 1990.

Both of you had forgotten our promise
to stay friends forever. Forever friends, a promise as sacred
as I do, but only as hallowed as the hearts that vow.
Mouths lie, hearts don’t, and they don’t always know
what the other has planned, do they?

We can’t be friends forever when you’re dead, Ted. Mark.
You broke your word. Fuck you both, for leaving me to
watch the cans tied to Pat and Chris’s getaway car as they
started their new lives, law school, together, Oregon.

Fuck you both for leaving me alone, and Teddy, fuck you
for not telling me you loved me when you had the
chance. Fuck you,
Chris, for telling me you did at all.

But that was ages ago, wasn’t it? Pat is my Facebook friend,
now, how many years later? Too lazy to do the fucking math.
Thirty years, Yeah. Something. Chris, you aren’t. And that actually feels
pretty honest.

I have that photo in with a bunch of other promises,
sacred vows, in our senior yearbook with the “keep in touches”
and “have a great summers.” And the message from you,
Teddy, telling me to “stay cool and cute.”

I didn’t do either, Ted. I became jaded and sucked at
promises, too. Three marriages later. Maybe I’ll get this one
right. And I sucked at finding my way in the world
I wondered, still wonder,

time and again, the way you and Mark chose,
and why. Well, I guess you
found something you didn’t like, maybe,
and that’s why you just stopped looking.

I guess we never promised to call when we wanted to
blow our brains out, huh, Ted?
Never promised to “keep in touch”
with a fatal necktie around our necks, did we, Mark?

God I loved you both.
I fucking miss you.
And fuck you.
And fuck me, too.

I close the yearbook, and indulge. I look Pat up on
Facebook. I look at pictures of Chris and wish she’d gotten fat.
(She didn’t. She hasn’t. She isn’t.)
Then I remember how I told my kids that high school

is no big deal. Trust me, I’d said, it’s a tiny blip on
the screen of Life. And it won’t matter one day,
all the high school shit. Not even
friends who you thought were “forever.”

I told them that,
and I tell myself that, too.
I tell myself that,
and so many

other lies.

© j.a. carter-winward

anonymous asked:

What's Ted's worst look in your opinion? I hate that porn mustache look with the big mole it looks so horrible haha. I thinks it's fascinating how completely different he could look with just minor changes.

I love all of his looks tbh but the night of his Florida arrest he was dead on his feet and his mugshot is just terrible. BUT if we forget about that fake mole he actually looks pretty hot? 

I’m not sorry, he can try to sell me drugs any day. 

In 1986, 23 years after the death of Sylvia Plath, 56-year-old Ted Hughes wrote the following letter to their 24-year-old son Nicholas Hughes:

“Dear Nick,

I hope things are clearing. It did cross my mind, last summer, that you were under strains of an odd sort. I expect, like many another, you’ll spend your life oscillating between fierce relationships that become tunnel traps, and sudden escapes into wide freedom when the whole world seems to be just there for the taking. Nobody’s solved it. You solve it as you get older, when you reach the point where you’ve tasted so much that you can somehow sacrifice certain things more easily, and you have a more tolerant view of things like possessiveness (your own) and a broader acceptance of the pains and the losses. I came to America, when I was 27, and lived there three years as if I were living inside a damart sock—I lived in there with your mother. We made hardly any friends, no close ones, and neither of us ever did anything the other didn’t want wholeheartedly to do. (It meant, Nicholas, that meeting any female between 17 and 39 was out. Your mother banished all her old friends, girl friends, in case one of them set eyes on me—presumably. And if she saw me talking with a girl student, I was in court. Foolish of her, and foolish of me to encourage her to think her laws were reasonable. But most people are the same. I was quite happy to live like that, for some years.) Since the only thing we both wanted to do was write, our lives disappeared into the blank page. My three years in America disappeared like a Rip Van Winkle snooze. Why didn’t I explore America then? I wanted to. I knew it was there. Ten years later we could have done it, because by then we would have learned, maybe, that one person cannot live within another’s magic circle, as an enchanted prisoner.

So take this new opportunity to look about and fill your lungs with that fantastic land, while it and you are still there. That was a most curious and interesting remark you made about feeling, occasionally, very childish, in certain situations. Nicholas, don’t you know about people this first and most crucial fact: every single one is, and is painfully every moment aware of it, still a child. To get beyond the age of about eight is not permitted to this primate—except in a very special way, which I’ll try to explain. When I came to Lake Victoria, it was quite obvious to me that in some of the most important ways you are much more mature than I am. And your self-reliance, your independence, your general boldness in exposing yourself to new and to-most-people-very-alarming situations, and your phenomenal ability to carry through your plans to the last practical detail (I know it probably doesn’t feel like that to you, but that’s how it looks to the rest of us, who simply look on in envy), is the sort of real maturity that not one in a thousand ever come near. As you know. But in many other ways obviously you are still childish—how could you not be, you alone among mankind? It’s something people don’t discuss, because it’s something most people are aware of only as a general crisis of sense of inadequacy, or helpless dependence, or pointless loneliness, or a sense of not having a strong enough ego to meet and master inner storms that come from an unexpected angle. But not many people realise that it is, in fact, the suffering of the child inside them. Everybody tries to protect this vulnerable two three four five six seven eight year old inside, and to acquire skills and aptitudes for dealing with the situations that threaten to overwhelm it. So everybody develops a whole armour of secondary self, the artificially constructed being that deals with the outer world, and the crush of circumstances. And when we meet people this is what we usually meet. And if this is the only part of them we meet we’re likely to get a rough time, and to end up making ‘no contact’. But when you develop a strong divining sense for the child behind that armour, and you make your dealings and negotiations only with that child, you find that everybody becomes, in a way, like your own child. It’s an intangible thing. But they too sense when that is what you are appealing to, and they respond with an impulse of real life, you get a little flash of the essential person, which is the child. Usually, that child is a wretchedly isolated undeveloped little being. It’s been protected by the efficient armour, it’s never participated in life, it’s never been exposed to living and to managing the person’s affairs, it’s never been given responsibility for taking the brunt. And it’s never properly lived. That’s how it is in almost everybody. And that little creature is sitting there, behind the armour, peering through the slits. And in its own self, it is still unprotected, incapable, inexperienced. Every single person is vulnerable to unexpected defeat in this inmost emotional self. At every moment, behind the most efficient seeming adult exterior, the whole world of the person’s childhood is being carefully held like a glass of water bulging above the brim. And in fact, that child is the only real thing in them. It’s their humanity, their real individuality, the one that can’t understand why it was born and that knows it will have to die, in no matter how crowded a place, quite on its own. That’s the carrier of all the living qualities. It’s the centre of all the possible magic and revelation. What doesn’t come out of that creature isn’t worth having, or it’s worth having only as a tool—for that creature to use and turn to account and make meaningful. So there it is. And the sense of itself, in that little being, at its core, is what it always was. But since that artificial secondary self took over the control of life around the age of eight, and relegated the real, vulnerable, supersensitive, suffering self back into its nursery, it has lacked training, this inner prisoner. And so, wherever life takes it by surprise, and suddenly the artificial self of adaptations proves inadequate, and fails to ward off the invasion of raw experience, that inner self is thrown into the front line—unprepared, with all its childhood terrors round its ears. And yet that’s the moment it wants. That’s where it comes alive—even if only to be overwhelmed and bewildered and hurt. And that’s where it calls up its own resources—not artificial aids, picked up outside, but real inner resources, real biological ability to cope, and to turn to account, and to enjoy. That’s the paradox: the only time most people feel alive is when they’re suffering, when something overwhelms their ordinary, careful armour, and the naked child is flung out onto the world. That’s why the things that are worst to undergo are best to remember. But when that child gets buried away under their adaptive and protective shells—he becomes one of the walking dead, a monster. So when you realise you’ve gone a few weeks and haven’t felt that awful struggle of your childish self—struggling to lift itself out of its inadequacy and incompetence—you’ll know you’ve gone some weeks without meeting new challenge, and without growing, and that you’ve gone some weeks towards losing touch with yourself. The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn’t live boldly enough, that they didn’t invest enough heart, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all. It was a saying about noble figures in old Irish poems—he would give his hawk to any man that asked for it, yet he loved his hawk better than men nowadays love their bride of tomorrow. He would mourn a dog with more grief than men nowadays mourn their fathers.

And that’s how we measure out our real respect for people—by the degree of feeling they can register, the voltage of life they can carry and tolerate—and enjoy. End of sermon. As Buddha says: live like a mighty river. And as the old Greeks said: live as though all your ancestors were living again through you.”

Source: Letters of Ted Hughes

youvegotenoughnerve  asked:

Hi, hello, fan mail from your friendly neighborhood rper. Your fucking god damn Black family headcanons fuck me up dude, so good. I wonder (cause @rainbow-tonks and explored this a little) if you've explored Druella and Cygnus's relationship/characters any further than where you took them in Toujours Pur? There are some weird things (like Cygnus being 12 when Bellatrix is born) that have a wealth of potential headcanons. Do you have any such headcanons? #wantstogeekwithmorepeopleabouttheblacks

(( OOC: Oh my god okay pull up a chair and get a snack or something because I am ready to discuss some Black family headcanons. So, starting with Cygnus and Druella - I also noticed Cygnus’s supposed birth date and how young that made him when Bellatrix was born - but I’ve also read this is a possible error, and if you look properly at the entire family tree it’s full of weird instances like that. Rowling has previously said maths isn’t her strong suit, so it could be a mistake. But hey, this is the Black family and if anyone’s gonna be popping out babies before they’re teenagers, it’s them.

However - something I considered when writing Toujours Pur was the possibility that Bellatrix may not have been fathered by Cygnus at all. At one point the script was going to go in a completely different direction, where Orion had an affair with Druella and they had an illegitimate child that had to be kept a secret from everyone. Wally’s heart would still be broken and it would also explain why Cygnus supposedly became a father so young. Although I decided not to take the story in that direction (Orion couldn’t stand Druella, let’s be honest) I still love it as a headcanon.

When I was characterising Druella, there is basically no canon information to go off of, so I had to consider the three daughters she raised. You’ve got one that is bat shit crazy, one that can be very cold and calculated but will ultimately do anything to protect the ones she loves standard Slytherin and then one of our token Black rebels (and if you look at how many have been blasted off the family tree, there are quite a few).

Bellatrix has an instability and wildness to her that I think has to come from the Blacks (*cough* illegitimate child theory strikes again), so I didn’t give Druella any of those qualities. However, I couldn’t picture her being anything like Andromeda, and we know both she and Cygnus shunned Andy once she married Ted, so I knew she was still heavily influenced by pureblood ideals. In which case I related Druella most closely to Narcissa, hence the platinum blonde ‘do. At face value Druella was quite an airy, superficial person - but if you read between some of her lines, Druella could definitely give as much spite and cruelty as she got. I think she had this act down to a fine art - all smiles and graces for everyone, presenting the perfect image, but ultimately she was someone not to be underestimated.

I’m gonna stop this rant here because I could go on forever, but I love creating development for unknown characters like this, especially within a family as complex and messed-up as the Blacks.

#BlackFamilyHeadcanonGeekOut2k17 ))