museum of accidents

All of Donna Tartt’s characters are irreparably broken, and it shows so much about real life. Richard Papen is eternally scarred by his poverty, and his experience with the murder squad at Hampton. Henry Winter is filled with apathy for life and the only way he escapes it is by a bacchanal, which is the height of his life. Charles Macaulay is an alcoholic who is in denial of his bisexuality and has an abusive, incestuous relationship with his sister. Camilla Macaulay is in love with a dead man and is forsaken by her brother and the world to forever take care of the mess that is left. Francis Abernathy is pushed into a marriage he doesn’t want in order to keep his inheritance, and the only man he’s loved is a alcoholic and an abuser. Bunny Corcoran is brought up in a family that teaches him to be greedy but never to work for it, and he is murdered by those who he thought to be his friends. Theo Decker is broken apart by the museum accident, the painting he picks up ultimately rules his life. Boris Pavlikovsky seems to be happy and spontaneous throughout the whole book, but in the undertones, he has an abusive father and he’s an alcoholic and a drug addict who doesn’t really have much in the first place. Kitsey Barbour is unable to talk about things that disturb her being, and the death of Andy and her father drives her into the arms of someone she doesn’t love. Pippa Blackwell is carted off to a school for the mentally unstable and is forsaken from being the successful musician she aspired to be. All of these characters are completely enchanting and cracked and empty, each one a masterpiece of pain and ruin.

Museum Accident

Person A is studying history in college (studying to be a history teacher, an archeologist, idk) and goes to a museum in Rome, or another old city. And then, person B, a person that is super distracted, let a statue fall on the ground. This statue is very expensive, and person B is a poor person, while person A is from a billionary family, so person A can pay for the broken statue.

Submitted by: cherrypitch!

i-cannot-live-without-coffee  asked:

I don't know how much of the region did, but I had various ancestors in eastern or middle Tennessee (Jackson, Campbell, Scott, and Clay Counties), and to the best of my and my mom's knowledge, all of them fought for the Union. One was even in Andersonville.

!!! I dunno in my family all the hype is World War II but on my mother’s side we have confederates and they are from Nevada and are all excited about it but yeah I don’t celebrate that. I celebrate the American Revolution because my ancestors wrote the peace treaty between America and Britain.

my niche fic i always adore reading is like this weird hyperbol of rom com hijinks coupled with a random backdrop setting

  • mermaid must save their coral reef from a beachfront hotel but falls in love with quirky architect who can’t swim
  • rich socialite is mistaken for substitute high school teacher and keeps coming back because they actually enjoyed teaching and can’t stop thinking about the charming school nurse 
  • fiddle playing busker saves hot shot lawyer’s life before christmas - as thanks they invite them to their family’s christmas - they happen to be werewolves and the lawyer’s sibling is suspicious and begrudgingly charmed 
  • museum volunteer accidently awakens 1000 year old viking and finds love, adventure and a longboat 

am i the only one? i am all for reading all these, btw

“I am not a flower, but a body with rules and predictable, cellular qualities.
My eyelashes and fingernails and skin and spit are organized by proteins
 designed to erode at a pre-encoded date and time, no matter what you do or do
 not do to me -
I am remakably like an animal.
More like a heifer than a sunrise, I want to bite, stroke, swallow you so stop lying
 there trying to think of something to say and trying to understand me.
I am the body next to but unlike yours.
You already know me. You already know what I’m made of.”

- Rachel Zucker (from “Don’t Say Anything Beautiful Kiss Me”)

Anyway,
if my lips were rose petals they’d taste too bitter.
If my cheeks were apples they’d crawl with apple worms.
If my eyes were stars they’d be dead by the time you saw them.
If I moved you like the moon I’d disappear once a month.
If my teeth were Chiclets you’d want to chew on them and spit them out.
If my hands were birds you couldn’t hold them; they’d peck you bloody.
Is my skin alabaster? Then it’s cold and hard and one day someone will skin me,
make me into a cold hard box tinged with pink or yellow, to hold unguents, then
how will you love me?
If my vagina is a cool, dark forest you’ll certainly be lost, you have no sense of direction.
If my vagina is a cave—watch out! It’s prone to seismic shifts and avalanche.
If my vagina is a river of honey: orange, lavender, fine herbs, hazelnut, all too sweet.
If my ears are shells I can’t hear you, only the ocean anyway.
And if my voice is music, it is unintelligible.
Don’t say anything.
I am not a flower, but a body with rules and predictable, cellular qualities.
My eyelashes and fingernails and skin and spit are organized by proteins
designed to erode at a pre-encoded date and time, no matter what you do or do
not do to me—
I am remarkably like an animal.
More like a heifer than a sunrise, I want to bite, stroke, swallow you so stop lying
there trying to think of something to say and trying to understand me.
I am the body next to but unlike yours.
You already know me. You already know what I’m made of.
—  Rachel Zucker, “Don’t Say Anything Beautiful Kiss Me,” Museum of Accidents