its like one in the morning

What was the point of the popularity of the Hunger Games if people can’t recognize a tin-pot dictator in the making when they see one?  Even—especially—one who gilds everything about him because he thinks glitter means dignity?

anonymous asked:

GG's WA pic has over 850K likes. The power of WA!

I must of gotten this last night cause its already surpassed that!

As I checked this morning we’re at 929K likes! I think there’s a very good chance within two more days for the post to reach ONE MILLION

4

Today’s prompt was moon and stars and I’m such a sap I’m such a sap

first real phil drawing, this took so long!! art cannot capture the true beauty of this man!! i love him!!

8

cosima + smiles

happy birthday, @starconfetti!

Mischievous Maintenance (M)

Summary: You have an eventful Monday, thanks to the ever-resourceful head maintenance technician who works in your office.

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 6,913

Warning: MaintenanceTechnician!Jimin, workplace hookup, sexual themes, dirty talk, rough sex, oral sex, profanity

Series: Working Man Bangtan

A/N: Hope you enjoy this quick and dirty oneshot!

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8

Friends TOW In Massapequa (2002) | SNL sketch “Brazilian Bar” (2006)

“Click”

i just.. . can’t get over sign of the times. there is so much feeling in it - hope, desperation, strength, vulnerability, pain, love, bravery - and all of it is so palpable, i feel like i can taste it in the air while the song’s playing. he pulls you in at the very first note and tangles you into his soul with every note after that. the energy in his voice just. it washes over you, wave after wave, like an ocean of electricity and emotion. 

Okay, let’s get something straight here: 

Día De Los Muertos is not “A Mexican Halloween”

If you did not know that, it is alright it is not your job to know everything about ever culture but allow me to explain exactly what Day of the Dead is: 

  • Día De Los Muertos/ Day of the Dead is a celebration but not so much of one like Halloween, 
  • In the mornings there are typically parades all filled with laughter, dance, beautiful decorations, and music of course it is fun we celebrate the life we have
  • But we don’t paint our faces and go parading down the street for nothing, its not a thing we do just because it is fun 
  • We MOURN
  • We honor those who has passed and made the journey to the afterlife
  • Each year families to to Grave sights (which are NOT for your aesthetically pleasing selfies please) to pay respects and visit those who have already gone
  • Mexicans and Hispanics are very family oriented people, at the grave sights you can often hear mother wailing out for their children who passed too soon or men knelt over their mother’s grave sobbing and of course children crying for their parents
  • People pray and cry out, they sob and scream
  • Yes it is a day of remembrance and we honor them but it is still painful, we miss those who once walked with us
  • Families and friends typically bring favorite food, flowers, drinks, etc to the graveyards 
  • Do NOT make fun of that. Please.
  • DON’T post skeleton memes aimed at Day of The Dead, the calavera/sugar skulls are meant to represented the parted souls of loved ones with names etched onto the forehead and the skulls painted on our faces are meant to ward off more death
  • DON’T disrespect grave sights, this is an obvious thing not to do people 
  • DON’T  celebrate if you do not intend of respecting and honoring those who have passed and just want it as a second Halloween 
  • DON’T mock people celebrating or any of the traditions 
  • DON’T mess the with petals, those orange petals are from a flower called  cempoalxochitl, and they are meant to help guide the dead back to their homes so their spirits can too visit 

Don’t get me wrong Day of the Dead isn’t always sad it is also fun and amazing and beautiful, we not only honor those who have gone but we celebrate those who have lived this long, we celebrate the life we have and acknowledge the fact we made it this far, death is a natural cycle, death will take us all one day but not today, and that is the reason why we celebrate! It is a beautifully melancholy holiday, and remember Day of the Dead is actually multiple days do please be mindful!

addicted

She’s his drug. 
He’s addicted, 
and the withdrawal symptoms are worse than the side effects.

Originally posted by pickeringgod

~

They are over. They’ve both said it. Her stuff is out of his apartment. He got his sweatshirts back from her. But this is the worst part to go through. This was even worse than missing her and wanting to be with her, but not being able to because his job had him in another country. This was even worse that being with her and just fighting because they’re both stressed and both tired and they have no one else to take their emotions out on but each other. 

This is the kind of missing her where he knows he can’t tell her. He can’t hear that she misses him too. He knows he can’t have her anymore. This is an ache in his chest, but not being able to pick up the phone and call her. This is missing the sound of her voice, and the way she said “I love you.” This is the kind of missing her where he’d rather be fighting with her because at least then she’d be talking to him. 

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i know retroactively ascribing highly specific contemporary labels to dead historical figures is unproductive because our sense of language, experience, and identity will always be different from theirs but daphne du maurier was a trans man oh my god

10

My novel, All the Crooked Saints, comes out tomorrow (10/10), but since I’ll be talking about that tomorrow, I thought today I’d instead talk about books that you could also snag while you were wandering or clicking through a bookstore — these are books I’ve either loved, have just picked up, or are about to pick up myself.

Titles and first lines:

LESS, by Andrew Sean Greer.

From where I sit, the story of Arthur Less is not so bad. Look at him: seated primly on the hotel lobby’s plush round sofa, blue suit and white shirt, legs knee-crossed so that one polished loafer hangs free of its heel. The pose of a young man. His slim shadow is, in fact, still that of his younger self, but at nearly fifty he is like those bronze statues in public parks that, despite one lucky knee rubbed raw by schoolchildren, discolor beautifully until they match the trees. So has Arthur Less, once pink and gold with youth, faded like the sofa he sits on, tapping one finger on his knee and staring at the grandfather clock.

DISAPPEARED, by Francisco X. Stork.

On the morning of November 14, the day she was kidnapped, Linda Fuentes opened the door to my house, where my family was having breakfast. As usual, I wasn’t ready. 

ABSOLUTELY ON MUSIC, by Haruki Murakami & Seiji Ozawa.

Until we started the interviews in this book, I had never had a serious conversation with Seiji Ozawa about music. True, I lived in Boston from 1993 to 1995, while he was still music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and I would often go to concerts he conducted, but I was just another anonymous fan in the audience.

WILD BEAUTY, by Anna-Marie McLemore.

Later, they would blame what happened on the little wooden horses. Estrella had found them when she was five, the set of them dust-frosted and forgotten on a high shelf. They had been small enough to fit in her hands, carved wooden wings sprouting from their backs.

LOVE MINUS EIGHTY, by Will McIntosh.

The woman across the aisle from Rob yammered on as the micro-T rose above street level, threading through the Perrydot Building, lit offices buzzing past in a colorful blur. He should have taken his Scamp. Public transport was simpler, but he always seemed to share a compartment with someone who didn’t have the courtesy to subvocalize.

MOONGLOW, by Michael Chabon.

This is how I heard the story. When Alger Hiss got out of prison, he had a hard time finding a job. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School, had clerked Oliver Wendell Holmes and helped charter the United Nations, yet he was also a convicted perjurer and notorious as a tool of international communism. He had published a memoir, but it was dull stuff and no one wanted to read it.

I AM NOT YOUR PERFECT MEXICAN DAUGHTER, by Erika L. Sanchez.

What’s surprised me most about seeing my sister dead is the lingering smirk on her face. Her pale lips are turned up ever so slightly, and someone has filled in her patchy eyebrows with a black pencil. The top half of her face is angry — like she’s ready to stab someone — and the bottom half is almost smug. This is not the Olga I knew.

THE STONE SKY, by N. K. Jemisin.

Time grows short, my love. Let’s end with the beginning of the world, shall we? Yes. We shall. It’s strange, though. My memories are like insects fossilized in amber. They are rarely intact, these frozen, long-lost lives. Usually there’s just a leg, some wing-scales, a bit of lower thorax—a whole that can only be inferred from fragments, and everything blurred together through jagged, dirty cracks.

THUNDERHEAD, by Neal Shusterman.

Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe. He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five — and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.

STRANGE WEATHER, by Joe Hill.

Shelly Beukes stood at the bottom of the driveway, squinting up at our pink-sandstone ranch as if she had never seen it before. She wore a trench coat fit for Humphrey Bogart and carried a big cloth handbag printed with pineapples and tropical flowers. She could’ve been on her way to the supermarket, if there were one in walking distance, which there wasn’t. I had to look twice before I registered what was wrong with the picture: She had forgotten to put on her shoes, and her feet were filthy, almost black with grime.

Interviewer: What’s it like being married to Ginny Weasley?

Harry: One time, I asked her if she wanted to make dinner after we had an argument.

Harry: The waffle was still frozen.