seleção nt

en route ~ traveling with les bleus
requested by @itsaporcupine

1. I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) - The Proclaimers 
2. Rock & Roll - Eric Hutchinson
3. Oh Yeah - Yello
4. Gold On The Ceiling - The Black Keys
5. Entertainment - Phoenix
6. I’m On My Way - The Proclaimers
7. Geronimo - Sheppard 
8. Back Home - Andy Grammar
9. I Won’t Let You Down - OK Go 
10. The Distance - Cake
11. Life Is A Highway - Rascal Flatts
12. On The Road Again - Willie Nelson
13. Start Me Up - The Rolling Stones
14. Run-Around - Blues Traveler 
15. Send Me On My Way - Rusted Root

A PSA: How To Talk About Autism If You Are Not Autistic

As a result of Autism Acceptance/Awareness Day/Week/Month, there are a lot of articles floating around the internet about autism, written by non-autistic people. While I have absolutely no doubt that these people are well-intentioned, I cannot help but be peeved off by the way that they write about something that they know very little about. I could be forgiven for being less forgiving about these people that think they’re doing us a favour by speaking on our behalf, but I’m feeling kind so I’ve decided to come up with a list of helpful tips for our neurotypical ‘helpers’ to use in the future.  

DON’T use person-first language, ie. “a person with autism”. Most autistic people are against it. It makes it sound as if our autism is detachable, an add-on to our lives, a quirky accessory.

DO use identity-first language, ie. “an autistic person”. My autism is a crucial part of my identity, and that’s OK!!!!  

DON’T say to/about an autistic person,“Your autism doesn’t define you!”/“Your autism is a part of who you are, but it’s not all you are!”. Actually, autism is a pervasive condition. It affects literally every aspect of my life so … yeah, it does define me. And that’s OK!!!

A lot of these things come from a wish to distance oneself from the word autism – presumably because of its historically negative connotations. But unless it is being specifically used as an insult, autism is not a bad or dirty word! (R****d is though. For the love of god, it’s 2016, why am I still hearing/seeing that word???)

DON’T presume to be an expert on autism because you know an autistic person. When you meet your second autistic person, you’ll be awfully confused as to why they aren’t the same … hopefully one or both of them will sit you down and explain that your “once you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met them all” viewpoint is bogus.  

DON’T talk for or over autistic people. We never asked you to do that!!! We can speak for ourselves!!!!  

Really, it all comes down to that last point. The best thing you can do, as a non-autistic person, is to listen to autistic voices and elevate them whenever you can. The worst thing you can do is to speak over us. This message is important across all social issues – feminism, racism, etc. - and it’s no different within autism discourse.  


skimmons requested by atonofweirdcrap [x]

  …and   if   you   trigger   those   spring   locks,   two   things   will   happen:   first   the   locks   themselves   will   snapright   into   you,   making deep   cutsall   over   your   body,   and   a   split   second   later,   all   the   animatronic   parts,   all   that   sharp   steel   and   hard   plastic   will   instantly   be   driven   into   your   body.   you   will   die;

                                       but   it   will   be   slow.    ❜ 

                                          (   pic   edited   by   @ghoulveined   )

In fair Verona, our tale begins with PAVEL LAM, who is TWENTY-FIVE years old. He is often called PUCK and is NEUTRAL.

There were too many gold-hearted knaves in Verona, too many rogues who would surrender their mind, independence, and soul at the slightest show of softness from a pretty face. But what one never was, never knew, and never craved couldn’t topple their throne. Softness never helped make living off of table scraps any easier, it didn’t make his dirty rags of clothes any more comfortable. It didn’t bring back his mangy, sorry excuse for a father who’d been found wasted away with his equally shabby mistress behind some alleyway, it didn’t wake his mother from her self-pitying, drug-addled stupor to feed her only son.

The gods seemed intent on making a joke out of Pavel’s life, and so he resolved to beat them to the punchline. Armed with nothing but a dastardly sense of humor tinted dark with the dirt and tar in which he was raised, he bid his mother a goodbye and a merry “thanks for nothing!” and went on his way to carve a path with his nails and teeth. He swindled to survive, delighting in his own antics, only ever eating food stolen from another’s plate. He impersonated tour guides and stole unsuspecting tourists’ wallets as they marveled at the Winter Palace, he drank the wine of richer men as he distracted them with slight of hand. Odd jobs sustained him as he grew from child to teenager, though he was always sure to emphasize he took “dishonest jobs only. I didn’t eat dirt for the first eight years of my life just so I could wipe it off your floor.” He helped expose cheating spouses for a pretty coin and lost count of how many weddings he’d been hired to ordain. Not one job asked of him ever made him pause, none except for one. In hindsight he should have asked for far more than what was offered, but Pavel was just as desperate as the client, who very clearly wasn’t as wealthy as he was vengeful. The job was simple. Kill the man’s previous supervisor who let him go. The target flaunted his wealth, and was too easy to spot from the way his face contorted in disgust at Pavel’s tattered clothes, at the wheeze in Pavel’s voice that sounded like terrible cough but was actually suppressed snickering. Killing him was easy, albeit messy (as first kills often are), and to his annoyance his hands shook and his voice quivered when he reported back to his client of his success. “Are you alright?” they asked, more out of curiosity than out of genuine. He shrugged, smirked, retorted,“Shaken but not stirred and all that. Got someone else you want me to off and another four hundred euros?”

The rest was, as less interesting people would say, history. Killing was a thrill, yes, but it paid well, and the better he became the more people were willing to offer. Meager scraps became opulent feasts, he traded in his ratty clothes for fine leather, and replaced his little hovel in Saint Petersburg with a studio apartment in Verona. Though, some things never changed, and though he could afford a sniper rifle or any other weapon that made his job easier and stealthier, he preferred his knives and revolver - call it vanity for wanting to prove he could be a top tier assassin who still relied on close combat. Clients and targets ranged from politicians to CEOs to diplomats, but he likes to think despite his change in fortune, he’s still the “same ol’ fun-loving curmudgeon” he always was. 

He evades and escapes from the law, from loyalties, from his own conscience like tar, slick as it slips through one’s fingers, eager to stain and ruin. His laugh rings louder than the cathedral bells, mirthful and dark, and it boasts of a man with no stake in vengeance nor sympathies, untouchable, walking the cobblestone streets as if they’re his own clouds upon Mount Olympus. One could argue there is no real malice behind his intentions, for that would insinuate anything beyond strict neutrality, and they’d be right. It was his oldest excuse in his almanac, that he couldn’t possibly give enough fucks to worry about anyone besides himself. He kills for anyone with enough coin, though no amount so far has been able to buy his loyalties. Assassinating was ugly business, certainly, but mobs, permanence, consequences - well, there were few things that could make a jester cry.

Orpheus Ahulani: Past admiration. Pavel had only been a teenager when he first became acquainted with Orpheus, and quickly became enamored with the man’s penchant for violence and chaos, believing to have found a kindred spirit in him. The admiration has since cooled into resentment and disappointment since Orpheus joined leagues with the Capulets - “Orphy, really, you’ve sold out! This is very not punk of you.” - and, sure, the guy was promised his own underground kingdom, but how much longer would it be until the Capulets decided they’d have no more use for either old Orpheus or his castle built from sand and shit?  And Pavel’s always quick to remind Orpheus of how fickle organized crime can be, that if someone declares you ruler of an underground kingdom, they’d be just as willing to bury you alive.

Nikolai Borisov: Unwitting victim. Pavel didn’t mean to ruin the man’s good word and reputation, really. It was an accident, a hilarious one, but sheer coincidence, and a collision was bound to happen considering their professions. Nikolai liked his explosions and dynamite and bombs and whatnot (perhaps a bit too much in his opinion, but that was neither here nor there) and Pavel was running late to a spot where he knew his target would be and perhaps tripped over a wire or something and set it off some meters and meters away. Prematurely. Three hours prematurely, apparently. Strange how Nikolai can’t seem to get over it.

Alva Gwon: Showoff. Pavel gets it, he’s not the only one in Verona who can shoot a gun, but ever since Alva’s come to town all he hears about (second-hand) is how good a shot the lounge singer is, how they could shoot the button off a suit and it’d somehow retail for higher than it was bought. The fact that they’re so reluctant to prove their finesse irks Pavel further, and he makes it a game to see how far he can push them, goading them constantly into indignation (though never into blatant exasperation or violence, unfortunately). He’s convinced their saccharine demeanor is a front and delights in watching it flicker, just for him.

Pavel is portrayed by JACKSON WANG. He is currently OPEN.