intelligent debate

Little things that make each type happy

ESFP - Making others smile and enjoy themselves. Seeing the bright side of any situation. Being in good company with loved ones and people who want to have fun. Enjoying life without having to stress about responsibilities. Shared interests. Affection.

INFJ - simple and quiet surprises that show them they are loved. Alone time. Reading. And ultimately being able to serve a greater and very real purpose in life.

ENFJ - when they have provided for their family and friends completely. When they feel appreciated by the people around them, and when they feel loved. People who are patient with them, and aren’t overly demanding. When someone truly listens to the ENFJ and allows them to vent and express themselves.

INFP - having people in their lives who will listen to them and allow them to be themselves without judgement. Listening to music or reading for hours. Time spent with people they care for. In depth conversations. Making people smile. Random acts of kindness. Positive displays of affection. Warm hugs.

ENFP - inspiration. The feeling of being truly connected to others on a deep and meaningful level. Sharing honest and sincere dialogue with other people. The possibilities and beauty that the world around them possesses. Reading. Exploration. Coffee. And maybe a little romance.

INTJ - being allowed to achieve a goal or accomplish a task their own way. Being able to connect with someone who has the same hunger for knowledge that they do. Being around someone who understands them, and appreciates the way that they are. When a well-crafted plan comes together beautifully. Cracking an intellectual puzzle. Good books.

ENTJ - being noticed for their accomplishments and their intelligence. When they have people who are undeniably loyal to them no matter what. Dominating in an intellectual argument. Being able to passionately express their goals and desires. When a plan unfolds smoothly before their very eyes. Honesty. Personal growth. Success.

INTP - feeling like someone understands their intentions. Being able to share their interests with the people they care about without judgement. Being around people who appreciate their sense of humor. Being given space when they need it, being allowed to process their emotions without pressure. The freedom to do what they enjoy. Electronics of varying kinds. Games that are mentally stimulating. Reading. Caffeine.

ENTP - being able to have in depth debates with intelligent people. Being able to banter back and forth without the other person becoming offended. Exploring all the new possibilities that the world has to offer. People who appreciate their unique brand of humor, and who will laugh at their jokes sincerely. Winning. Randomness. Sarcasm.

ISTJ - when they are appreciate for the hard-work that they put into everything they do. When they are noticed for their honesty, dedication and loyalty. Being allowed to have alone time. When others respect their rules and actually listen to them. Gestures and surprises to show they are appreciated. Order. Structure. Honesty.

ESTJ - when people respect their rules and regulations. Being appreciated for what they do and how hard they work for others. People understanding that they aren’t intentionally so harsh, and that they truly care. Efficiency. Television. Having someone else prepare a delicious meal for them.

ISFJ - knowing that their loved ones are cared for and happy. Being able to provide for the people they love. When the people surrounding them are respectful and mindful of others. Nostalgia. A delicious home cooked meal. Quiet time curled up with a good book. Simple comforts. Traditions. Holidays.

ESFJ - feeling like the people they love truly appreciate them and want them around. When people confide in them, and express that they trust them. Being told they did something well, and that others are impressed with them. Taking the pressure off of their loved ones. Making others happy. Being loved unconditionally. Smiling. Love. Compassion.

ISTP - having the freedom to do whatever they want to do. Absorbing as much knowledge as they can, and implementing it in the real world. Being relaxed and not feeling pressured to express themselves. Being able to explore new and fun activities. The outdoors. Video games. Really good food.

ESTP - knowing that others admire them and truly enjoy being around them. Making others laugh, and being made to laugh themselves. Going on adventures. Exploring new and exciting things. Being understood. When people appreciate their knowledge and respect how intelligent they are. Reading. Time to think.

ISFP - being allowed to be themselves freely without judgement. Being reminded that they are loved. Little surprises and gifts from the people they care about. Feeling carefree. Being with loved ones. The little things that many people take for granted. Good music. Warm rain. All things nature.

Libra - Power and Pretty

We associate a lot of Libran qualities with geniality, sweetness, and the feminine expression of the Venus lover. But the sign of Libra is incredibly complex, dual bodied, and fierce. While the Libra can be painted as meek, easily intimidated, and fearful of conflict, there are expressions of Libra that exhibit powerful mental qualities, a furious fight for justice, and great ambition. There are many world leaders, male and female who have their natal Sun in Libra. They are aggressive on the debate floor, intelligent in negotiation, and level headed in their ascension up the career ladder. Libra is ruled by Venus and exalts in Saturn. We have the humanistic judgment of Venus fusing with the disciplined and determined will of Saturn. Libras are a tour de force, and they can be absolutely unmovable and resolute.

The double lined Libra symbol indicates a sign that experiences dual states of consciousness. While we have an archetype that is focused on developing relationships and connecting others, we also have the scales of justice. This is the need to throw oneself into battle so that what is fair and right prevails. Libra is an air sign, and the intellectual capacity of the individual is one of his greatest assets. There is a tremendous verbal acuity and the mind to dominate any debate. He can view the world through multiple perspectives and rapidly absorb information and fact. So we have four critical areas of intelligence expressed through Libra, and this is a secret of the sign’s success. There is socially receptive Venus, mentally astute Air, the fire of Cardinal, and wise, formidable Saturn. Life arenas like politics and law resonate here because the individual emanates tremendous leadership skills, formidable wit on the parliament floor, and a very focused approach to success.

Many female world leaders have their natal Sun in Libra, especially pioneering ones like Margaret Thatcher and Julia Gillard. Many male shock jocks are Sun Libras. There is ferocious dialogue and the reigning in of the Mars duality’s aggression, inferno, and combativeness. Libras stand by what they believe in, and their battle scars tend to be hidden by flowers and jewellery. The individual can be too easily underestimated, and his ability to adapt to the personality required means he can fly under the radar while achieving great feats. Libras are not unequipped for the world, they hold swords of power as they tackle the cosmic balance beam.


anonymous asked:

If you think about it... Lucy/Mina's ship name could = Lina = Lena... who is basically (in part) a combination of both of these characters. She has Mina's intelligence (debatable at times), strive to learn and bad taste in exes +her dark hair kinda but maybe not & Lucy's taste in women ie. best friends, as well as her bravery, intelligence and great fashion sense. Ps. I know their ship name is Westernray I'm just trying to prove a point.

Ahhh I see where you’re going here! There are definitely some shared traits between the three. I’ve simply been drawing Katie puppy-eyed parallels but common traits are also fun to point out!

So what I have gathered from this discourse issss….

That this:

Actually worked out and eventually led to this:

And therefore:

Fact of the day: Lena (Lina) Luthor is the reincarnation of the love child of Mina Murray and Lucy Westenra. Lena is the product of Westenray. Boom.


Ben, you simpleminded twatwaffle, where do I start?

1. NO RELIGION needs to be debated.  They’re all equally valid.  Whether you think that level of validity is “They’re all bullshit,” “They all have some truth,” “That’s not what I believe but it’s real to them,” etc, is not important.  What’s important is that you realize that every.  single.  world.  religion.  is running on the same “facts” you have - a longstanding tradition, usually based on a book written centuries ago and translated a thousand times, written by some guy who claimed to have divine inspiration and everyone went with it. 

2. You cannot have an “honorable” or “intelligent” debate about something that cannot be proven if your only research is reading books by guys telling you what you’ve already made up your mind on.  You cannot pull up a study and say “Okay but this evidence says that THIS is the real way to be a Christian.”  You have nothing objective to fall back on, just interpretations of interpretations of translations. 

3. The best way to genuinely learn about a religion is not to read a book by someone biased against it.  It’s to go to a house or worship, engage in some educative activities and talk to the people there.  NOT with the mindset of gathering information to prove wrong, but to learn about their beliefs and why they have them.  This, of course, assumes a genuine interest in educating yourself rather than feeling smug about being right, which, Ben, I must admit, you don’t seem that interested in.  The Bible feels pretty strongly about that, though.  I mean, I’m sure you’ve read II Peter 1:5-8 more times than I have, but just in case you’ve forgotten:

For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith, goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control; and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love.  For if you possess these qualities in increasing measure, they will keep you from being ineffective and unproductive in your knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.

And I mean, all you want is for people to learn from all the smart-ass shit you claim to know better than them, right?  You’re educating people to lead them away from sin, not simply being smug about how you’re doing it right and they aren’t, correct?

4. Here’s the thing about Christianity, Ben.  Every single person who ascribes to it falls short, every single day.  Whether you consider yourself falling short of God’s hopes, expectations or demands, you are nevertheless disappointing him.  The Bible has a lot to say about arrogance, Ben, and it is the very height of arrogance to assume that you have knowledge of which sins offend God on a greater level than your own. 

Since you believe in salvation as reward for faith in Jesus rather than for good works, I’m going to assume you really enjoy the book of Romans.  So I’m going to flip over to Romans 12:3 for a sec.

For I say, through the grace given to me, to every man that is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think; but to think soberly, according as God has dealt to every man the measure of faith.

In other words, Ben, get your head out of your ass and attempt to look at yourself objectively instead of getting so full of yourself.  Instead of comparing others to yourself and looking at how they fall short, instead perhaps wonder if you’re out of your depth and falling short of the ideals you have set for others.  The Bible talks pretty clearly about how quarreling, jealousy, anger, hostility, slander, gossip, conceit, and disorder (II Cor. 12:20) are common afflictions to befall ministers (that career path you claim an interest in).  Proverbs assures us that the arrogant will not go unpunished (16:5). If you looked at yourself truly objectively, with genuine self-awareness, would you like what you saw?  I wonder.  

Before you lecture (excuse me, “debate”) others about the shortcomings of Catholicism, your job is to examine yourself.  Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?  (Luke 6:41)  You know as well as I do that you sin daily.  You behave in a manner unbecoming to the Lord, whether you are prideful, or angry, or lustful, or lazy…but somehow is is the sins and shortcomings you yourself feel you do not commit that you find grievously offensive and in need of stamping out in others.  Why is that?  Why do you feel the need and desire to separate Christianity between those you feel are doing it wrong and those who are doing it as you are?  Why do you wish to create what amounts to religious civil war?  All fall short of Christ’s expectations, but rather than build a brotherhood in that, in rejoicing in Christ’s love and grace and sharing that with one another, your instinct is to call others out and say “He sinned worse than me!”

What, Ben, is Christlike in that? 

PS Go reread I Corinthians 13.  You quoted it at your own damn wedding. 

Tensions are high right now. I get it. We are trying to understand how America voted a guy from a reality TV show into our presidency. We are wondering what drove people to vote for this candidate who has hurt people we love. We are grasping to understand why this outdated system is still in place (in case you were wondering, Trump is president from his electoral college wins, but Clinton won the popular vote). I turn around and am surrounded by people who don’t understand, who are fearing for their lives, who are crying and can’t stop because they’re afraid.

Things looks bleak right now, but we can’t lose hope for a better tomorrow. That’s why I’m posting good things that came out of yesterday’s election.

Catherine Cortez Masto is now the first Latina senator to ever be elected.

Tammy Duckworth, a disabled war veteran and Asian American, was elected as senator in Illinois.

Kate Brown is the first LGBT governor ever in Oregon.

Minnesota elected IIhan Omar, a Somali-American woman, as a lawmaker for their state.

Kamala Harris was elected, and she is the first black, female senator since 1999.

The future of tomorrow, millennials, did not support Trump in this election (at least, most of us didn’t.) If this jaded attitude towards politics that many millennials have is demolished (aka, not voting), we can fix the mistake we made yesterday in the future.

Things are not going well right now, but hope cannot be lost. Change has bursts and setbacks. We are possibly entering a setback for the next four years, but we can (and will!) fight against it. Stand up against bigotry when you see it in your communities. Offer safe spaces for your POC and LGBT friends and family. Call your representatives and let them know what you stand for. Have intelligent and crucial debates with people who disagree with you. Don’t let your rights be taken away without fighting back.

I’ll be with you.

Arguing with an SJW is like playing a sport your young brother made up.

Even though you technically win, he always makes up ridiculous reasons for why he wins, not you.

Anti-SJW: Since you keep insulting me and aren’t providing any intellectual counter-arguments, I’m pretty sure I won this argument.

SJW: But you’re a white cishite male, so it’s impossible for you to win.

Anti-SJW: For someone who supports “equality”, you really seem to despise white males.


anonymous asked:

Companions react to Sole mumbling their name in their sleep? <3

I love this prompt. ALL THE FLUFFS!!!! ALL THE FEELS!!!!!! (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚I really hope you like this because I kinda took the topic and ran with it. :3 I’m actually satisfied with this set I think, except for maybe X6 and Curie, but I was kind of running out of steam at that point.

This is all romance, so no ////.

I know it’s not summer but gosh darnit it fits!

Anyways, HOLY CRAPPLES EVERYONE! We went from a little over 100 followers to over 220+ in a DAY!!!! It makes me happy that these reactions make y’all happy. You guys are the inspiration for this blog, and as long as you’re supplyin’, I’m writin’.

Danse: It had gotten late, and Danse could not find Sole for the life of him. Last he saw them, Sole was hammering away at their new suit of Power Armor, but he assumed they were done since there was no clanging coming from the workshop. However, Danse decided to check there one last time just to cover all of his bases. Lo and behold he finds Sole, slouched with their face pressed into the shin of their Power Armor and a drip of slobber rolling down the leg. Danse rolls his eyes and nudges Sole’s shoulder with his knee a little. “C’mon soldier, you can’t fight with a crick in your neck.” Nothing. Danse palms his face and sighs. “Mmmmmm, Danse.” Danse felt his eye twitch involuntarily. Surely Sole didn’t just, “Danse…” … “Uh…” Danse said intelligently. He debated whether or not he should carry Sole to bed or leave them out here because honestly he feels a little weirded out right now if not also slightly aroused. He decided to quickly carry Sole up to bed and then return to his own pillowy palace of safety. He curls into the fetal position and spends the rest of the night staring at his wall trying to decipher what just happened.

MacCready: MacCready keeps the first watch while Sole slumbers away in their sleeping bag. MacCready was happy they camped out on a rooftop; this way he can read his comics by moonlight to keep himself awake. He’s so engrossed in an issue of The Unstoppables that he almost missed a whimpered “MacCready.” He had to perk his ears up for a second listen because he’s not entirely sure he heard something the first time. “MacCready, h-help.” Sole murmured. Their breathing becomes short and labored, panicky. MacCready’s quick to kneel next to Sole, grab their shoulders, and shake them. “Wake up! It’s just a nightmare, everything’s fine!” He tried to beckon Sole from the recesses of their subconscious, and he sighed, relieved, whenever they finally opened their eyes. “What?” Sole asked sleepily. “You were having a bad dream. Understandable considering where we are.” MacCready comments. “You called out for me in your sleep.” He states bluntly. “Oh…” Sole looks concerned but thoughtful with scrunched eyebrows. “I guess… you just make me feel safe.” Sole admits. MacCready blushes in the dark with a shy smile on his face. “Really? Well then, glad to know I’m doing my job right.”

Preston: Preston had to carry his General back to Sanctuary after they were knocked unconscious with a supermutant’s board. It was nothing too serious, but Preston figured they should high-tail it out of supermutant territory before more showed up. Besides, he kinda liked looking at Sole’s sleeping face. They did this funny thing where they tilted their head back and hung their mouth slightly open, snoring softly on the inhale. Preston tripped over a rock a bit while distracted by the view and jostled Sole a little. They squirmed in his arms and then lolled their head into his chest. “Preston.” They murmured, his name on their breathy voice. Preston stopped in his tracks, surprised. A blush crept up his neck when Sole leaned in to lay a hand on his chest. Covering up his embarrassment (from no one in particular), Preston coughs and hikes Sole up a little more into his grip. He keeps his hat down as he ambles into Sanctuary to hide his heated face. He wished that Mama Murphy wasn’t so observant. She teased him about it later.

“Hey Preston, what’s Mama Murphy talking about?” Oh boy.

Piper: “C’mon Blue, urgh, I think it’s time you hit the, urgh, hay.” After losing a round of nose-goes, Piper had the honor of escorting a drunk and unconscious Sole back to their bed. Sole usually doesn’t get so wasted when they drink, but Piper understood why they wanted to get black out drunk that day. The kidnapped villager Sole promised to rescue was gunned down by Raiders right in front of them, and it was all they could manage to tell the deceased man’s family the news. Piper had lugged Sole over her shoulder as best as she could and half-carried half-dragged Sole to their quarters. “Piper.” They groaned. “Right here Blue. Just rest, okay?” She carefully laid Sole down on the mattress which stirred them awake a little. Sole blinks blearily at Piper, on the verge of passing back out. “Piper,” They sobbed, “I didn’t mean to. I just, I just thought, I didn’t want-,” Sole’s speech began to break down into incoherent burbles. Piper leaned down to hug Sole around their neck. “Shhh, hey now Blue, it’s okay. Nobody blames you alright. It’s gonna be okay. Here, do you want me to stay?” Sole nods even though they aren’t fully aware of what’s going on. Piper stretched out beside Sole and cuddled their head to her chest while stroking their hair. Sole continues to mumble her name until they sink from consciousness again.

Deacon: Sole and Deacon had holed up on the second floor of the Kingsport residence beside the lighthouse. The two laid back to back on one of the beds since the other one was a little bloodied after their scuffle with the Children of Atom. Sole had already drifted off, but Deacon remained on high alert, supersensitive to the way Sole’s breathing caused his shirt to rub against his back. “Deacon…” He tensed reflexively, “Yeah?” When Sole didn’t answer he turned around to face them, and Deacon realized they had mumbled his name in their sleep. His heart started to pick up its pace, and he felt compelled to place a warm hand on Sole’s upper arm. Sole rolls over unconsciously and nestles into Deacon’s chest. Deacon freezes with his arms awkwardly angled over Sole. They’re so close… Too close, part of him thought, but he finally relaxed his embrace and placed his chin tentatively on top of Sole’s head. Deacon wasn’t sure why Sole called out to him in their dreams; maybe they needed comfort? A secret voice inside of Deacon hoped that Sole just wanted to be near him. “I’m here.” He whispered, “And believe me, I’ll be here long after you get tired of me.”

Nick: Nick had told Sole to go home already, or at least get some proper sleep on his bed. It was two in the morning, and Sole was passed out on the other side of the desk across from Nick, using a case file as a pillow. Nick just chuckled and continued his note taking, agreeing with himself to tuck Sole into bed after finishing with this folder. “Nick…” “Hm?” Nick looked up. Sole was still dreaming, so they must’ve been talking in their sleep. “Ahhh… N-Nick.” Sole’s cheeks looked red, and Nick had a hard time convincing himself that Sole was just flushed from the summer heat. “Okay, time for bed.” He announced, shaking Sole’s shoulder with his hand. “Wake up kid. Time to move to the bedroom.” Sole blinks awake and looks at Nick. “Aw, why’d you wake me up? I was having such a great dream.” Sole complained breathily, yawning. “Is that so?” Nick comments. He’s thankful that he cannot physically sweat or blush. Sole rubbed their eyes and smiled at Nick. “Thanks for making sure I didn’t sleep the whole night out here. I don’t think my back could take it.” They said. “Sure thing. Sweet dreams.” Nick could barely look at Sole as he bid them goodnight, but he also couldn’t focus on his cases anymore.

Cait: “Well, can’t say you didn’t try eh?” Cait smirked at Sole who was both grinning and teetering on the edge of consciousness. Hey, they’re the one who wanted to know what it was like in the Combat Zone. Cait cackles and helps Sole to the infirmary Curie’s set up, and the little scientist makes sure to give Cait a good scolding before leaving the two alone. Cait watches Sole’s slow breathing. They still had that stupid grin on their face. Cait had never met someone who was so happy to lose to her, but then again Sole was different in general. “Hehe, Cait.” Sole giggles unconsciously. Cait rolled her eyes even though she was smiling. She leans over to ruffle Sole’s hair in their sleep. “Ah, I just can’t resist your charms when you’re like that. You’re such a dork.” Sole started smiling with pursed lips and cracked open one sleepy eye to give Cait a smug look. “Hehe. You like me.” Sole taunts. “Augh. You’re impossible you are.” Cait scoffs. “You look well enough to me now. I’ll be off then.” Sole whined as Cait left, but Cait just smiled, and she reminded herself as she walked away, that she’s too proud to turn around.

Curie: Curie was so excited! She was able to find an ECG machine in near working condition, and with a little help from Sturges she had it functioning in no time. Now to find someone to test it out on! But so far no one was willing to let Curie stick electrodes all over them. Some villagers had even begun to complain that she was working for the Institute and wanted to hijack their brains. Finally, a desperate Curie stumbled upon a sleeping Sole. Despite the logical warnings her brain flashed at her, she wheeled the equipment into Sole’s room. Curie delicately pressed the sticky electrodes to Sole’s wrist and ankles, flicked on the machine, and waited for the data to roll in. Everything seemed steady. “Curie.” Sole murmured. “Oh, a spike in the readings!” Curie exclaimed quietly. “Curie.” Another spike. Curie noticed Sole this time. Did they just say her name? How interesting. What could it mean? How was it that her name was able to make Sole’s heart rate increase? Curie blushed at the implications. “Curie?” Sole sounded more awake this time. Uh oh. “Curie… what’s… going on?” Curie whipped her head towards Sole like a radstag in headlights. “Oh! Uh, zis is nothing! I was just, I-“ Sole and Curie stare at each other for a moment, both severely confused. Suddenly, Curie rips the electrodes from Sole and barrels out of Sole’s room with the ECG paper fluttering behind her. “Weird.” Sole said before collapsing back on the bed.

Hancock: Hancock convinced Sole to spend an entire day just relaxing with him. As part of the agreement, Sole got to choose where they spent the day, so they both ended up sprawled on top of a blanket in Sanctuary’s forgotten playground, lazing about under the summer sun. Hancock left the hard chems at home, and instead brought with him a single packet of cigarettes. He wanted to be sober so he could remember his time with Sole. After basking for a few minutes and puffing on his cig, Hancock heard a soft snoring beside him. He looked down to see Sole conked out on the blanket. He chuckled, took a puff, and contented himself with studying Sole’s dreaming face. They smiled in their sleep: a small but real smile, which was nice to see for a change. “Hancock.” He watches their lips form his name. A corner of Hancock’s mouth quirked upwards, and he instinctively reached down to touch their face. It felt soft against his corded and leathery skin. The tickling sensation made Sole smile wider, and that made Hancock feel like singing. He settled for humming instead.

X6-88: X6 sat in Sole’s room. He didn’t ask to be there, and Sole certainly wasn’t expecting him, especially since they were fast asleep. He reclined in the chair beside their bed. He felt like he needed to be close to Sole for some reason, or maybe he was just bored. He watched the steady rise and fall of their chest with satisfaction. The Institute’s future was laying there; His future was laying there. “X…” Sole whispers. “Hm?” X6 sits up a little straighter, but Sole was still asleep. “Interesting,” X6 mutters to himself. He places one of his hands on top of the one Sole has spread out beside them, and Sole unconsciously wraps their fingers around X6’s. “Well, I guess I can’t leave now, can I?”

I just wanted to share this. One of my motivations for believing in bitcoin and what it has to offer. Alan Watts said this and it rings true in my mind.

“We judge the United States of America by [the size of our economy, but that number] … does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education, or the joy of their play; it does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country. It measures everything in short except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.” -Robert F. Kennedy. ( a little bit nationalist, but those were the times. I can read globally in to that but that’s just me)

Start Alan Watts:

So then, if a given manufacturer automates his plant and dismisses his labor force and they have to operate on a very much diminshed income, say some sort of “dole.” The manufacturer sudenly finds that the public does not have the wherewithal to buy its products, and therefore he has invested in this expensive automated machinery to no purpose. And therefore, obviously, the public has to be provided with the means of purchasing what the machines produce. And people say, “thats not fair! Where’s the money going to come from? Who’s going to pay for it!?” …well, the answer is the machine! The machine pays for it. Because the machine works for the manufacturer and for the community.
This is only saying, that the government or the people have to be responsible for issuing, to themselves, sufficient credit to circulate the goods they are producing and have to balance the measuring standard of money with the gross national product. That means that taxation is obsolete, completely obsolete. It aught to go the other way. Theobald points out “That every individual should be assured of a minimum income.” See, that absolutely horrifies most people. “All these wastetrels, all these lazy people who are out of a job? Give them money??” …yeah. Because otherwise the machines cant work. They come to a blockage. This was the situation of The Great Depression. When here we were still, in a material sense, a very rich country. With plenty of fields and farms and mines and factories, everything going… but suddenly because of a psychological hangup because of a mysterious mumbo jumbo about the economy, about the banking, we were all miserable and poor, starving in the midst of plenty. Just because of a psychological hang up. And that hang up is, that “money is real” and that, people aught to suffer in order to get it. But the whole point of the machine is to relieve you of that suffering.
It is an inginuity. You see, we are psychologically back somewhere in the 17th century and technically in the 20th century. And here comes the problem.

so, What we have to find out what to do is to change the psychological attitude toward money and wealth and furthermore to pleasure and furthermore to the nature of work. And this is a formidable problem. It requires the best brains in public relations, in propoganda, in all that kind of thing, media, television, radio, newspapers, to try to get across a message to the vast general public about what money is. You see the difficulty is this: When the public suspects that the money that is being issued, that the dollar bills that are being issued by the government are only paper and stand only for paper, they start putting up prices. So you get an inflationary situation where the more paper money is, the higher and higher and higher the prices go. Which is a very stupid psychological maneuver. And people have to be persueded, the least effective way of persueding people is passing laws, but they have to be persueded somehow not to put up the prices, but to play fair with each other, and keep some sort of standard correspondence between how much is produced and how much credit is issued.

Imagine being the clumsiest elf in Rivendell and “accidentally” spilling food on the company, much to the amusement of Elrond and Lindir.

Words: 1,083 || Lindir/Female Reader || Based on ImaginexHobbit imagines here and here ||

A/N: So this is a drabble I’ve been meaning to do for a while now, but because I’ve been stuck doing exams (DAMN IT I HATE YEARLIES), I haven’t been really able to write it out. So this is told from Lindir’s perspective (because Lindir is my precious baby elfling i love him) and, well I hope you all enjoy it :) (or at least more than the new tumblr update *puts on shades and heelies into the sunset*)

It was known to all races through all the ages of Arda that Elves, the eldest of the Illuvitar’s children, were the most graceful and ethereal beings to have walked the earth. The most fair, the wisest, the most learned of all the races.

In poor Y/N’s case however, well…she left a lot to be desired.

No, no she was fair. Lindir most definitely thought Y/N was fair, wisdom was debatable, intelligence not wanting, her script was flawless owing to her position as head scribe. Yet over the thousand-odd years he’d been her friend, he found himself consistently assisting her in regaining her feet after tripping over her own robes or walking into an arbour or helping her piece together various pieces of broken crockery and on the one occasion Y/N had somehow managed to knock over not one, not two, but four of Lord Elrond’s heavily stacked-bookshelves.

It was rather endearing if it weren’t for the fact Erestor would not stop talking about every time he was left blushing after brushing past her fingers when helping her stand. No, Erestor and Feren of Mirkwood had a wager; Feren had wagered that Lindir would never come to his senses and ask to court Y/N, while Erestor (having a little more faith in his scholarly friend) believed that he would eventually get around to it (and by eventually, Erestor stated that it would be at least the beginning of the Fourth Age of Arda).

But Lindir doubted he would ever see the Fourth Age even dawn, as he was currently subjected to three-days’ worth of torture in the form of hosting the company of Thorin Oakenshield. The supper thus far had been amiable to start, the brooding leader of the Dwarven company seemed reasonable to some extent, unlike his unruly companions (with the exception of course of Mr Baggins).

“Did you see that, mellon nîn?” Y/N asked with her usual excitement, bouncing on the tips of her toes as she gently tugged on the collar of his crimson cloak. “It was forged by the High Elves of Gondolin! Do you think, perchance, that your Lord Elrond would let me glimpse it?”

“Careful,” A smirk threatened to appear upon his stony countenance, already thinking of all the accidental possibilities. “You might cut yourself or, as impossible as it is I think you would be capable of it my talented friend, somehow snap the blade.”

Me, my dearest Lindir? No, you must be dreaming.” She swayed and rested her beautiful head upon his shoulder before straightening again, nearly falling off the step but catching herself just in time as she was beckoned by the head of Imladris’ kitchen, uttering something about his ruse of refusing to serve the usual end of week venison to spite the youngest dwarves who had ransacked his pantry. Or something along those lines, even his ears weren’t able to hearing anything as the Dwarves had now begun a rowdy tune, the oddly-hatted one even stood upon the newly-polished table. Lindir hated to think of the task of repolishing it.

No, when his father had offered him into an apprenticeship as Lord Elrond’s advisor, he had been expecting tough nights filled with paperwork, not having perfectly edible food flung at him by Dwarvish children and quite honestly he was simply going to have to insist upon his early retirement. Perhaps that little villa by the quiet stream in Lothlorien would be appropriate? Provided of course that Y/N agreed to come- No, he was simply not allowed to think about the possibility of living with Y/N, starting a family, correcting antique scrolls on the ramifications of warfare and their economic impact upon trading with Men while Y/N ran her enchanting fingers through his hair… no that was simply too much for him to handle.

Although, Lothlorien did have a great deal less staircases and doorways than Imladris…

He watched now with fascination as Y/N’s brows knitted together in slight confusion, holding a bowl of bitter-greens salad in her arms. Perhaps he should have been much more attentive to the ugly dinner guests, rather than Y/N’s delicate features, as a well-aimed tart had landed upon his previously-pristine robes.

There had only been one other time in his life that Lindir had ever felt like raging about like an Orcish beserker, and that had been the day Lord Elrond had informed him he would be responsible for minding his twin elflings for the duration of his Lord’s stay at Mirkwood.

This particular situation was a definite second.

In hindsight, he should have truly been keeping a close eye on Y/N as she spontaneously tripped over the hem of her gown, though there was something unnatural about the way she had dumped her bucket of salad over the beardless-dwarf’s hair and the way she apologised after somehow bumping into Gilwen carrying the goblets of wine, causing the younger elf to spill them over the dwarves, a blonde-haired dwarf was in particular sopping wet. No, Lindir found it positively hilarious that with miraculous grace that had never been granted to her before, she executed an elaborate dance of pretending to trip over cobblestones and wipe plates of foods off tables and onto laps, hastily apologising with half-concocted excuses and continuing in her revelry with her playful smirk.

“Oh, I do apologise, I have quite a… reputation as the clumsiest elleth to walk this earth.” Y/N orchestrated her light and joyful face into that of a sombre one, the sort appropriate for hearing that one’s rival was dead but internally dancing for joy knowing that one had now inherited their position as head scribe. Y/N deeply curtsied to the fuming dwarfs before hastily making her retreat, sure to hold her heavy skirt above her feet as she skipped up the stairs, throwing a hasty yet mischievous wink over her shoulder.

“Well, I found that display rather enjoyable, what say you, Lindir?” Elrond found himself eating his lips, desperate not to allow the sound of his laugh escape.

“Aye, my lord, it was indeed-“

“Of all the elleths you had to find yourself in love with, it had to be that one, didn’t it?” Elrond turned to him, the uncharacteristic cheeky glimmer in his eyes reminded Lindir all-too well of his chaotic twin sons.

“I-uh, yes, my lord…” Lindir glanced once again in Y/N’s direction, where she giggled with Gilwen, her skirt revealed to be stained ruby-red with the wine. “Bless her clumsy heart.” He added with a fond smile.

Elleth: Female elf
Mellon nîn: My friend
Imladris: Rivendell

[[ Some ref sketch-ups for Pips’ new body. They’re about the size of a Robobrain brain…container…thing, which is coincidentally where Aiden got the idea.

Also, Aiden makes them a little docking thing for when they don’t feel like walking, which he tries attaching it on his back but it gets in the way of his jacket and backpack so he eventually settles on a belted thing that rests at his lower back. ]]


Hello, my name is Jane (that may or may not be my actual name), and I am 15. I’m just looking for an internet friend (sorry if my first few sentences seem awkward it feels like i’m filling in a job application- even if I had never done that before). I use a lot of brackets, I just think that sentences demand so many side thoughts to be complete.

A couple of things about me:
1. I love to debate about literally ANYTHING. And don’t take it personally if I come off as rude, I just easily get absorbed in an argument.
2. As you can probably tell by the title, I am an attention whore. I will probably want to talk a lot and for a long time. At the beginning of our “friendship” or what I hope will develop into a friendship I may seem disinterested but if I think we are a match I will quickly warm up.
3. IF you need advice of any kind i am there for you and I will listen.
4. I like to play devil’s advocate so again do not get offended.

1. if you are easily offended do not go through the pain of contacting me (for your own good)
2. I get bored easily and will shut down if i think you are not interested.

In case u want to know more:
Sign- gemini
Hogwarts house (because why the fuck not)- Slytherin
Mbti (now if u do not know yours GO DO THE FUCKING TEST)- ENTP
Motivation- power
Interests- everything
Favorite song- too many to list

Looking for ages 15-18. And intelligent.

If you were able to go through that, i applaud you because god knows I would have left after the first sentences. If you went through it without cringing, how much botox do you have in your face? If you are interested, u are most likely a psychopath with serious issues, congrats– i am too.

anonymous asked:

How would Namjoon react if he found out his funny and laid back girlfriend was very intelligent and liked have debates and philosophical discussions. <3 Thank you ily!

Namjoon: Suddenly I feel like the nights we spend together are going to get even more exciting!


You: You do realize how that would sound to a stranger, don’t you?

There was a point, during The Rise, when it became abundantly clear to the disreputable denizens of Los Santos that unless drastic measures were taken the Fake’s were going to succeed in their play for the city. Some of those with a vested interest in maintaining the status quo, who wanted the city for themselves or at least the patches they’d carved out as their own, negotiated a deal. A temporary truce between a handful of the biggest names in the area. An alliance to bring down the ragtag upstarts before their unprecedented domination completely took hold.

It was a bloody uprising that had taken them all by surprise. The FAHC had slunk into Los Santos, established themselves well enough to bully their way into a modest little bit of territory but not nearly enough to draw attention, to cause alarm. Wouldn’t have been any different from any of the dozens of little gangs that rise and fall on the fringes of the godforsaken city if not for their leader. The infamous Geoff Ramsey, fallen so far from grace. 

Slumming it in Los Santos, Ramsey appears to have collected what could charitably be called a crew. The only other member of any notable worth is Pattillo; a powerhouse in her own right but too blindly loyal to see the sense in walking away from Ramsey’s downward spiral. The rest of the group is less inspiring. They seem to have contracted some nameless mercenary, a big guy who’s always wearing a ridiculous fur-lined coat and an ever-changing cheap plastic party mask like he thinks he’s some kind of Hollywood villain. That’s pretty par for the course with mercenaries though, melodramatic bastards.  

The other three unknown wonders appear to have been recruited right out of school; bright eyed, bushy tailed and babyfaced, a cacophony of garish bravado, unrefined talent and misplaced pride. Ramsey’s pet British import is a nosey brat with sticky fingers, the short-tempered Jerseyite can’t keep his cool long enough to let his perpetually bloodied knuckles heal, and the wanna-be sniper is more invested in feigning disinterest and painting his guns ironically vivid colours than he is in being more than a halfway decent shot.

Still, disaster or not, more than one group keeps and eye on them at first; Geoff might look down and out but no one just ignores a Rooster. The result of this surveillance is.. unflattering. A series of ridiculously low-level jobs with pitiful takes, messy out-of-sync teamwork, public arguments and complete disrespect; it’s pretty clear Ramsey has no idea how to run a decent crew, not even the kids seem to be scared of him. Even their base is a travesty; where the big gangs have bought up the penthouses of inner-city Los Santos, Ramsey and his menagerie are working with some sort of shoebox apartment somewhere out in the boonies. It’d be downright sad if it wasn’t so funny.

It takes a bit of time to confirm but eventually it is universally agreed that the FAHC were no kind of threat, that Ramsey had totally lost his touch. Eventually everyone stops looking any deeper than the occasional check in following some amusing flop, more a dose of schadenfreude than any true threat analysis.  

So when the ripples start no one thinks much of it; the Fake AH Crew take out and run off a couple of little gangs, not a big deal – the dregs are always snapping at each other, pushing for more territory, if anything the Fakes are overdue. It only makes sense that they’ve started to run bigger jobs, and no one notices the way they’re now pulling them off effortlessly, with no sign of their previous ineptitude, the way they’re starting to make waves.

It’s more or less a fucking tsunami by the time the penny drops, the FAHC crashing in on other crew’s jobs, taking out their warehouses, hitting their bases; maybe whatever dump they’re holing up in isn’t glamorous but the overcrowded rat’s nest of the outer sectors’ of the city prevent anyone from repaying the favour and trailing the Fake’s back home. They’re clawing their way up the ladder with alarming speed, expanding their reach so rapidly it’s nearly impossible to keep track, and Ramsey watches over it all. Dressed to the nines in an extravagant suit to match his shiny new attitude, reserved control and smug satisfaction, already patting himself on the back, celebrating his perceived victory.

Something had to be done. Individual attacks are mounted, of course, but the FAHC have grown wily, have revealed themselves to be more of a threat than any had anticipated. The trust-fund baby stops fumbling and shows his fangs, their loose canon gets his hands on a seemingly endless supply of explosives and out of nowhere the questionable sniper never misses a shot. Indisputably the worst reveal of all, though, is the mercenary. Dropping his ridiculous fur coat and plastic masks for a jacket he wears like a second skin and a skull no one could mistake, his name whispered all over the city like a collective gasp, a shared curse; Vagabond.

So all of a sudden those in power in Los Santos found themselves with a hell of a fucking problem on their hands. It was getting out of control, they were losing everything, so they band together. Four of the most influential groups in Los Santos’ underbelly, usually at violent odds over contested territory but prepared to set it all aside until this matter is dealt with. Until the Fake AH Crew have been taught exactly what happens to upstarts in their city.

The plan, when they settle it, is a basic as can be: divide and conquer. If they can seperate the group, keep the two in charge occupied then tell the rest their leaders have fallen it will all be over. Clearly Ramsey’s got something of the Roosters in him still, and Jack is a goddamn demon when she’s protecting her boss, but the remainder of the crew will surely crumble under pressure.

As horrifying as he is the Vagabond is still a mercenary, is still driven by nothing more than money at the end of the day, and when he hears that his payday is gone his facsimile of loyalty is sure to follow. After that the kids won’t last long, cocky little shits or not once they’re all alone they’ll flee the city with their tails between their legs or die trying, and there there will only be two. Ramsey might have more bite left in him that they’d thought but he’s made no friends in this city, has no nearby allies to fall back on, and veteran’s of the business or not two people can’t hold up against entire gangs for long.

But, of course, it doesn’t exactly work out that way. It’s all going to plan, almost textbook, but the one thing no one took into account was the ludicrous ingenious of Geoff’s ability to play the long game.

See Geoff wasn’t wasting those early months, tiny hauls didn’t bother him at all because the target had never been the money. Geoff had money for days, for years in fact, what he need was a crew. A crew who knew each other’s every strength, flaw and habit, who’d dealt with living on top of each other; forced through sheer proximity to start lowering walls. The little jobs let them feel each other out without much consequence, find their rhythm as a group, test relationships under pressure, boredom and frustration. Maybe they hadn’t looked like much, had been intentionally avoiding showing their true colours, but Geoff made himself a crew who not only worked as one but had come to actually care for one another, trust each other and were, above all else, loyal. That’s the kind of connection no amount of money can buy, no degree of fearful respect can fake, and no mere threat can shake apart.

So when they say Geoff and Jack are gone, torn away right at the precipice of everything they had been working for, the reaction is somewhat less than desirable.  

When the Vagabond hears he doesn’t cut and run, doesn’t consider himself duty-free, an impartial witness to the death of a client. Ryan thinks liars, thinks no chance in hell, thinks kill them anyway. His knee-jerk reaction is to leap into action, relish in the wholesale murder he’s been putting off for months, but he isn’t just the Vagabond anymore. Ryan’s got the Lads to think about, standing a few steps behind him in a move they’ll surely mock him for later but it’s second nature now, trying to keep them safe. For a given definition of safe. The FAHC has given back a part of himself that he’d thought was lost forever, shattered bone-deep loneliness and rekindled joy and security and meaningless affection. Ryan would die before losing that all over again; he might be more than just the Vagabond but Ryan has never been particularly forgiving.

There’s a choked off sound from behind him and in that split second Ryan has a choice to make. Geoff would call their bluff, demand to see the bodies; Jack would tell the Lads to be smart, to think about the flaws in the story; the Vagabond would execute the threat for their insolence before slipping off into the night, but Ryan just takes a deep breath. Smiles his nastiest smile and steps to the side, waving the Lads forward with a jerk of his head, bracing himself for the carnage.

Because rather than breaking their will, when the Lads are told Geoff and Jack are gone they flip their goddamn shit. Gavin loves this crew unlike anything he has ever loved, emotions so fierce he’s surprised even himself, the found family he’d burn down the whole world to keep. Michael breathes loyalty, has always done, but his devotion has never been unquestioning obedience and the FAHC is the first crew who have rewarded his refusal to be a blind pawn; for all he huffs and complains Geoff has always welcomed intelligent debate, no matter how irreverently it’s proposed. And then there’s Ray, who’s learning that having a crew doesn’t require the sacrifice of independence, that leaning on others won’t always be a let down and sometimes coming down from his perch and getting amongst the action is worth the mess; it’s a work in progress but he’s not ready to lose it yet.

It doesn’t matter how implausibly convenient the boasting sounds, how easily calm heads could pick apart the lies; the thought alone is more than enough to have all three seeing red. Things were going to get messy no matter what, but Ryan’s explicit blessing was fuel on an already considerable fire, and they don’t hesitate tear past him and into the fray. Ryan follows, of course, and there’s something almost cathartic in it, an assassin amongst a hurricane of fury, infinitely more efficient alone but surprisingly proud of their merciless bloodbath, an amused artist cleaning up after enthusiastic students.

It’s Ryan who gets them moving again afterwards, when street’s have fallen quiet and there’s no one left to punish, feeling very much the responsible adult as he herds them down the road, a shepherd with a particularly murderous flock.

It doesn’t take them long to track down Geoff and Jack, alive and well and just finished cleaning up their own mess. Geoff’s suit, proudly protected from all but the slightest singeing despite this ordeal of a day, is completely written off when he’s tacked into a filthy hug, Jack graciously allowing herself to be drawn into the mess despite grumbling about her aching ribs as Ray and Ryan stand to the side and share a look that is as much look at what we have as it is look what we put up with. They’re all bloody and bruised and strung out on too much adrenaline and too little sleep but they’re back together, they’re all alive, and it still tastes like victory. Like succession.

With the city’s former top dogs burning in the street, an irrefutable display of terrifying talent to overwrite all past assumptions and a ruthless reputation that’s spreading father in every passing moment, the FAHC couldn’t be in a better position to claim ownership of Los Santos. The infamous City of Saints, safe-haven of sinners, bowing under one supreme power for the first time in it’s less than illustrious history, newfound royalty slipping in like poison and bringing the city to its knees.

20 Interesting Facts About Libra (Part 3)

1. When feeling irritable, a Libra may pull away instead of sticking around and becoming offensive.

2. Libra shows love by taking care of you, protecting you, and showing physical affection.

3. Libras know immediately when someone has foul intent or is using them, but may wait to see how far they go.

4. Libras like bouncing ideas off those we’re close with, but the final say is completely up to us!

5. No one understands Libra, because…

Keep reading

An Open Letter to Apologists for Sleepy Hollow

Dear Apologists for Sleepy Hollow:

We’re nearly four months past the third season finale of Sleepy Hollow, and you still don’t get it. Let’s set aside Abbie Mills’ death a moment (don’t worry, we’ll get back to it) and get some things straight.

1) Network television shows are commercial products, created, produced, and distributed in a multi-billion dollar global media industry. Like other products, they involve creative labor, but they do not represent an “artist’s vision.” They represent a delivery mechanism for eyeballs to advertisers, and advertisers bought over $9.25 billion at the five biggest broadcast networks this year for the 2016-17 TV season.

Every time I see the defense of a creative choice on network TV couched as, “I trust the storytellers” or, worse, “the writers are telling the story they want to tell,” I cringe. That’s not true. They’re telling a story that makes business sense and it is a fundamentally collaborative enterprise. Budget, labor, product placement, international distribution, audience demographics, studio and network goals and notes, weird writers’ room dynamics, etc. all shape and constrain the “story” choices you see, good and bad. (You’ll notice that TV writers are quick to distance themselves from unpopular choices and say, “you don’t know what goes into these decisions!” but happy to claim creative agency when something is going well or is praised. Cognitive biases are so exhausting.)

Not that you can’t still enjoy TV as an entertaining or even meaningful commercial product, but this counter-criticism that rests on a bizarre fantasy of creative agency of writers is bogus all the way through. TV isn’t like novels; it isn’t even like indie films.

2) Still, even if it were the case that the writers’ room had a strong vision for the season and executed the story they wanted to tell, the story the Sleepy Hollow team told was terrible. It was bad television along every dimension. Again, ignoring Abbie’s death, what are some examples of the poor storytelling in S3? The way the timeline couldn’t be kept straight? Dropping the magical/supernatural system and Biblical backbone from the first two seasons? The wackadoo and inconsistent Sumerian/Greek/Norse/WhateverTheFuck mythology? The villains–Pandora and the Hidden One–who did nothing, acted without motivation, stood around a lot, and were boring to boot? What connection did they even have the Witnesses? All of the artifacts? The Betsy Ross storyline? The bizarre introduction and story for Daniel Reynolds, who flip-flopped between being a mere cipher and a nasty abuser? The “demon convention” that never happened? The boring monsters? The FBI conspiracy that wasn’t? The sudden romance between Joe Corbin and Jenny Mills? Ezra Mills and the stereotype fest of the absent Black father? All the things signposted that never came to fruition, or just sort of petered out, like saving the Archives?

Plots holes, inconsistencies, doubling-back, missing character motivations, random pick-ups and drops, major misfires in dramatic irony and the use of foreshadowing, an unsure tone, etc. dogged the season.

And it wasn’t even “crazy.” It wasn’t even fun. It was a slog.

If you want to defend that “vision,” great. More power to you. But don’t pretend it was competent, let alone good, and understand you’re apologizing for poor storytelling and creative work. You’re letting the studio, the network, the producers, and the writers off the hook for a truly subpar product.

3) White male writers, producers, and executives do not need the support or protection of women, especially women of color. White men are statistically overrepresented in Hollywood, and the White male experience dominates TV and film production. Here are some voices from the field:

“In general, men can and frequently do fail up, and women can and frequently do succeed down — and you’re just aware of the fact that as a girl, you can’t screw up,” says Nina Jacobson [The People Vs. O.J. Simpson].

They say write what you know. But if what you know is not the experience of a middle-aged white male, good luck getting a greenlight.

Yes, even in a 400-plus-series universe that has made considerably bigger strides than the film world, that white-guy voice remains the loudest and most often heard. “If I waited to write only for a Persian lesbian, I’d still be waiting,” notes Fresh Off the Boat showrunner Nahnatchka Khan, 42. “But I can write for straight white men because those are the jobs.”

White men employed at network TV series are not marginalized, are not disempowered, do not need advocates in fandom or in Hollywood. Neither do the stories–the voices, the experiences, the biases, the assumptions–of White men need advocates in fandom or in Hollywood.

4) The Sleepy Hollow fandom has always been fractured, and it’s always been full of racists. People who are flagrant racists, of course, have been all over the fandom, but the racism presents mostly as folks biased toward the story of Ichabod Crane because he represents a familiar norm. (See above:  the straight White man.) Here’s the thing:  with the death of Abbie Mills, the racists in the fandom “won”–including the unconscious racists, the one who would swear up and down they don’t harbor biases against Black Americans.

You know why you think there are more stories to tell? Because you think, and you’ve thought all along, that Sleepy Hollow is a White man’s story.

If you think, or thought, that it was Abbie Mills’ story or the story of Abbie Mills and Ichabod Crane, you wouldn’t be saying there were more stories to tell. Because there aren’t. Abbie is dead.

If you find appealing the show’s take on sanitized Revolutionary “twistory” or the adaptation of the Washington Irving story, and consider the characters secondary, you’re still guilty of racial (and gendered) bias because those are White stories. Coding your bias doesn’t eliminate it.

Your preferences aren’t neutral, my friend.

The eruption of the fandom at the end of the third season (and throughout seasons two and three) wasn’t just a response to the TV series itself, but to the White-dominant part of the fandom that the show was catering to, the part of the fandom that lectured the anti-racist and anti-sexist parts of the fandom and called those who criticized the show “haters,” that supported the writers and producers and Fox saying, “wait and see,” that denied Abbie’s full humanity, that thought it was “refreshing” the Black female lead wasn’t cast in a romantic light (especially with her White male partner), that apologized and continued to apologize for the content on the show that was insensitive and even harmful to many folks, that enjoyed and even stole fan work from the more progressive parts of the fandom, and, finally, presented itself as the voice of fans in primary interactions with writers, producers, and actors.

(The show itself did much the same thing. One minute, it’s ship-baiting Ichabbie, the next minute, an executive producer was calling critical fans “haters.”)

We were alternately silenced, dismissed, mocked, and exploited.

Then can you imagine how awful it is to add hurt and betrayal to that mix?

And, in the end, erasure?

The third season of Sleepy Hollow wasn’t just another lesson in whose stories get told, whose stories get promoted, whose voices matter in entertainment media; it was also a lesson in how a TV series can align itself with dominant-group fans over marginalized fans and empower the prior through canon, effectively shucking the latter. If you haven’t been a part of the fandom, you don’t understand what that means:  folks weren’t, and aren’t, just reacting to story choices, but to structures of power–in fandom, in entertainment media, in the world.

5) The way Abbie’s death was written, the events leading up to it, and the direction given for season four were textbook misogynoir. The CEO of Fox defended the decision. The creators of the show defended it. Clifton Campbell defended it, an army of White TV writers who don’t work on the show defended it, the Sleepy Hollow writers defended it, viewers across multiple platforms defended it, and a segment of the active fandom defended it.

All of those defenses were defenses of racism.

And Abbie’s death wasn’t the only instance of a) racism or b) misogyny on the series. It wasn’t a fluke.

So, when you offer your support to the writers, producers, and network executives who gave those defenses, when you offer your support to fans who gave those defenses, you are throwing your weight behind some ugly, oppressive worldviews against others that are more progressive and liberatory. You’re not keeping the peace; you’re picking a side.

And that side? It’s the one where misogynoir is okay: it’s defensible and excusable.

6) Telling folks to engage in “intelligent” debate or complimenting interlocutors you like in a patronizing tone (”this is well-argued”) is tone-policing. You don’t get to set the terms of the debate, or the rules for what deserves hearing. Tone-policing is a silencing tactic that attempts to employ a mythical “moral high ground” in order to delegitimize and shut down criticism.

Focusing on tone derails and deflects. For example, if I Tweet, “That’s fucking racist!” and you reply with “You’re a mean troll!” you’re shifting the discussion away from racism and onto the tone or manner of my engagement with you. You’ve also painted yourself as a victim of bad behavior, rather than a purveyor of racist nonsense. Our conversation is then about whether or not I’m a troll rather than whether or not you’re a racist. So, not only is tone-policing silencing, it is also blame-shifting.

This is what happened every time the word “hater” was used to describe fans critical of the direction of Sleepy Hollow, specifically the treatment of Abbie Mills. Critical fans were “haters,” and writers and producers and the “right” fans (those who weren’t critical) had to be protected from the “haters,” which made the critical fans more critical, and thus proved they were “haters.”

So the cycle continues. Exhausting.

Personally, I don’t tolerate being mocked, exploited, baited, and misled, being thought stupid and forgiving, or being purposefully antagonized by a TV series and its production team. That’s the attitude towards fans your defenses are defending, and it is deeply disrespectful. Beyond that, those of you who seek to defend the Sleepy Hollow production team and Fox are also defending poor storytelling, centering White male writers, producers, stories, and viewers, disposable and interchangeable PoC characters (even a lead role), the use of fan labor to promote the show, and shutting down critical discourse.

This is why former fans of Sleepy Hollow get incensed when you pick up your shield in defense of the show, and, in public forums like Twitter, Facebook, or comment sections on news articles, in open letters and comments that writers and producers read, like, and distribute, demonstrate a commitment to a set of practices and values that have been, and continue to be, so toxic. It’s not a neutral action. It’s embedded in an ugly reality, in fan and media and business contexts, in a culture, in a discourse, in a chain of events that you cannot blissfully eliminate because it’s inconvenient to you wanting to look at Tom Mison’s face.

Much more can be said, and has been said, over and over, about Sleepy Hollow’s faults and the state of the fandom. I invite and encourage folks to educate themselves about this larger context, far beyond what’s presented here, if you think you want to engage productively with a fandom burned, a fandom scorned, a fandom erased.

Because, bottom line, if you apologize for the direction of this series and invite a response, that response isn’t going to be pretty. And there are good reasons for it.


Enough of this.