i won't get up

10

Like who he tryna kid though?

anonymous asked:

Okay but like 80% of the jobs on that list require higher education such as law school etc. You can't actually do those jobs w/ just a political science degree...

Okay but… You can’t really do anything these days with “just” any degree, especially not in politics. And I can’t think of any political jobs that only require a Bachelor’s. Working on a campaign maybe? Probably not even that.

A Bachelor’s isn’t worth shit anymore, to be quite honest, so if you’re looking to get a job and build a career around a Bachelor’s degree, that’s… not realistic, unless you have no intention of getting a promotion or anything like that. If you seriously want to work in politics, you’re going to have to get a Masters degree, just like you’d have to get a Masters in biology, psychology, engineering, or any number of other fields. I can’t even think off the top of my head what jobs would ONLY require a Bachelor’s. I know they’re out there, but.. A Masters is like the new Bachelor’s, tbh.

Another thing about degrees is that they’re not your ticket into getting a job. I mean of course you should have one (not everyone should but that’s another discussion entirely), but just because you have a degree doesn’t mean you’re going to have millions of job offers land at your feet. You also need experience, so you need to volunteer, intern, and put in hours that way and in related ways in order to round yourself out. Just because you have a degree doesn’t make you any more special than anyone else with a degree, and graduating doesn’t automatically mean you’re going to have a job waiting for you.

.

Turkey and Egypt were bombed just this week and the syrian government is literally committing genocide and nobody fucking gives a fuck
I’m sorry but where are the hashtags? the facebook pictures? Why does nobody give a fuck about terrorism when non whites people are victims? if this was paris or bruxelles y'all will be talking about it for weeks, if this was the usa y'all will be talking about it for years. Honestly wtf why don’t you care about us? Why?

vimeo

Rock Musical Bleach 2016

Opening song - BLEACH!!

10

december on tv

[29/31]: the fresh prince of bel-air

Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock. Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring

sometimes it takes a lifetime

chapter 2: age 10


Sherlock crawls out of bed at half-four, bleary-eyed and bed-headed. He slips on his warmest dressing gown and peeks out the sliver of open door before he carefully pushes it wide, tiptoeing past Mycroft’s bedroom. He sneaks past Mummy and Father’s, too, down the stairs, and away from the guest room where Aunt Violet and his cousin Samantha are staying during their visit.

The house is dark and quiet and still in a way that Sherlock loves, and as he finds his way to the sitting room by muscle memory, it feels as if the night is holding its breath, watching and waiting for the possibility of something to rattle from its depths.

When his knees bump against the edge of the sofa, he pulls an old torch from his pocket and quietly presses the switch, illuminating the fireplace in a dim halo. The stockings are as full as they had been when he’d gone up to bed, gifts from Mummy and Father already tucked inside. The hearth and the floor show no signs of soot, no footprints, no indication that anyone has been creeping around in the dark.

He swings the beam of the torch around the room, looking for any sign that someone has been here at all. Across the floor. Along the walls. Over the plate of mince pies Samantha had insisted on leaving out, still untouched.

But there, tucked into the corner just behind the tree, is a stack of gifts in unfamiliar wrapping, glittering crimson and cream in the torchlight, and hope flickers in Sherlock’s chest.

Father Christmas is coming, Samantha had told him while they’d cleaned their teeth side by side before bed, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes. His own experiences with Father Christmas had been beyond disappointing.

Once and only once, he had written a letter asking for his own tiny Christmas miracles, clinging desperately to the childish belief that a stranger would somehow deliver them. But he had woken on Christmas morning to find the usual bundle of gifts from his parents and his brother and relatives he barely knew, and no more. There had been no miracles for him.

It had been a lesson he’d only needed to learn once.

And yet.

Father Christmas is coming, she had said, and Sherlock had been determined to ignore her, to insist that there is no such thing as Father Christmas. But here he is in the sitting room in the middle of the night because his curiosity couldn’t be satisfied with an eyeroll and a scoff. Because despite the fact that he knows there are no miracles, he has to see the evidence with his own eyes so that he can be certain.

And here’s it sits, a mound of evidence shrouded in unfamiliar, sparkling red and white paper, striped like candy canes. Five, six, maybe seven gifts, all neatly wrapped and tucked away behind the tree like a secret. A secret that hadn’t been there when Sherlock had gone to sleep, and he can’t quite help the way that possibility tingles in his fingertips and toes.

Because someone has been here.

But who?

He slips quietly across the room, careful to avoid the boards that creak and groan, and kneels beside the tree. The present on the top of the stack has a label right on top. Scrawled on it in a looping hand is From: Father Christmas, To: Sherlock, and Sherlock’s heart thuds against his ribs.

Observe, he tells himself. Mycroft has been teaching him, and what better practice is there than a present, its contents all wrapped up and hidden from view.

The box is about the size of a sheet of paper, no bigger, and no more than a couple of inches thick. He shakes it gently, bending his ear closer to better hear the way the contents slide. It’s a soft sound, something light. A gentle press against the top of the box reveals the way it caves, bowing inward with only gentle, pillowy resistance. Likely fabric then. Clothing of some kind. Not the kind of gift he’d hoped for. Not the kind he’d asked for, once, long ago.

Setting it aside, he finds the next gift has Samantha’s name on it. And the next. And the next, and he huffs in frustration.

The following gift is for him though, and Sherlock repeats his process. This one is smaller, and it doesn’t slide at all or bend when he pushes on the top of it. Feeling along the sides, however, he notices the way the paper gives just a little more on one side than it does the other, pressing in just a bit farther before hitting the surface. A book then, his fingers pushed against the pages rather than the spine. Boring.

He tosses it aside, disappointment buzzing in his ears, and reaches for the last parcel in the stack when he sees it. Hidden behind the last box is a bag, carefully stuffed with tissue paper. A bag means the gift must be irregularly shaped, and irregularly shaped gifts– well, those are quite interesting, aren’t they? And Sherlock loves interesting things. They’re his favourite things in the entire world.

So this gift, whatever it is, he already knows he’s going to love it, and he just can’t resist taking a peak. It’s cheating, he knows, going straight for the answer and not trying to deduce it first, but there’s only so much anticipation that he can take.

The first piece of tissue plucked from the bag reveals a small wooden post, rounded on the end. He pulls away two more pieces of tissue before he realizes it’s a mast. The mast of a ship, with a crow’s nest near the top. Heart-pounding, he all but rips the remaining tissue from the bag and shines his torch down inside.

Light glints off the gold-trimmed edges of a pirate ship, the Jolly Roger sail hanging limp without the wind to carry it, and Sherlock’s heart soars. A pirate ship. Father Christmas has brought him a pirate ship.

He slips it free from the bag, just for a minute. Spins the tiny wheel. Adjusts the sail. Runs his fingers over the gilded name printed along the starboard side. The Black Star. His very own pirate ship. A little later than he’d expected it perhaps, but a welcome gift nonetheless.

Carefully, he puts it back in the bag, whispering promises to The Black Star that he’ll see it again in the light of the morning, and buries it underneath the tissue once more. Setting it back in its place behind the tree, he nudges and bumps and adjusts the bag, trying to get it back into the same position it had been before, when the torchlight falls across the tag on the front.

From: Father Christmas

To: Samantha

Samantha. This gift–this beautiful, perfect pirate ship practically built plank-by-plank out of Sherlock’s hopes and dreams–is for Samantha.

Stupid, he tells himself, echoing the words Mycroft so often throws his way. You’re a stupid little boy. Of course it wasn’t for you. There is no Father Christmas.

He barely manages to get the rest of the gifts re-stacked before the tears begin to fall, streaming hot and silent down his cheeks as he trudges back up the stairs to his room. He buries his face in his pillow and cries and cries, and when he finally falls asleep again, it’s not to visions of sugar plums, but to the echoing notes of sea shanties sung far off in a distance he can’t quite seem to reach.


12 days of fic-mas 2016, day 2: candy canes

2
Almas diferentes 
la clara tú, la oscura yo 
y al final, como el bien y el mal, 
somos almas gemelas
Like Ships In The Night (you keep passing me by) (5/?)

Enchanted Forest AU-Princess Emma does a reverse Cinderella and meets a Captain in a tavern instead of a Prince at a ball. It should have been a one-time thing but fate had other plans and they just keep meeting. Originally a one-shot birthday fic for @spartanguard but now a full on multichapter  Extra thanks to @phiralovesloki for being a stellar and fast beta!

5.2k | T | FF.net | AO3 | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4


The woods were darker than Emma had expected. Clouds obscured the moon and stars and the trees were little more than shadows against the black. It was the kind of night that called for curling up by a fire, not tromping through the forest looking for an escaped pirate.

There was a pull on her wrist from the black fabric wrapped around it. Emma adjusted her direction, trusting the locator magic to lead her through the darkness. She fingered the rough cotton in the dark. The scarf Hook had used to keep her from calling Elsa’s guards hadn’t been a bad idea but with a locator potion added, it had become Emma’s personal pirate finder. Her father and his knights had clattered off toward the port assuming, as Emma had, that the pirate would commandeer a ship. By the time she had poured out the potion, it was too late to tell them that Captain Hook had fled to the forest and not the sea. Determined not to let him get too far away, Emma had set off at a gallop on a horse only to abandon it when the scarf pulled her into the deep woods.

She didn’t know where Hook was going, only that, once again, he had betrayed her. This time she was going to throw him in the dungeon where he belonged, where her father had wanted him to be from the beginning. Her mistake had been to think that she understood him, that because they had both been hurt by love they were similar. She had thought that his encounter with the Dark One had changed him, made him recognize the futility of his vengeance, made him want to be a part of something. She thought she had sensed it that night in her room and later in the council chamber, but she had been wrong. After Neal and Walsh, she should have known better, but the damn pirate had made her forget herself and forget the lesson she knew all too well–the only people she can trust is her family.

Suddenly the pull on her wrist stopped and Emma paused in confusion. Then she heard the crack of a twig from behind and on instinct, she ducked. The momentum of her attacker took him over her body and to the ground. In a flash, Emma was on top and sliding up to pin his biceps with her knees. She put her full weight forward and he hissed in pain. She grinned in triumph but the smile fell as a sharp pain pierced her thigh. She had forgotten about the hook.

“Ah! What the hell!” She rolled off and away, her right hand going to her thigh and her left pulling her dagger. She hadn’t expected an actual fight, hadn’t believed he would really hurt her despite his escape, but of course she had been wrong.

“Emma? Bloody hell, Emma! Are you hurt?” His shock and remorse made her loosen her hold on her dagger but not on her anger.

“You stabbed me with your hook! Of course I’m hurt,”

There was movement and suddenly he was beside her, his shadowed form becoming something recognizable close-up.

“Where?” Then his hand was on her knee and sliding upward as he probed for her wound. Heat flashed through her and she slapped his hand away. He drew back as if she had slapped his face.

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