syllable

I always get shit for using italics so much but you will take my excessive italics out of my cold dead hands because as far as I’m concerned each one of these is a completely different sentence:

  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – this can be read a lot of different ways depending on context honestly. I mean it’s fine and there’s nothing wrong with it but two people could read it aloud in entirely different ways you know?
  • What the fuck are you doing here?” – someone was startled and originally was just going to say ‘what’ but then they recovered and turned it into a complete sentence
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – someone’s really elongating the ‘e’ on that 'the’ for emphasis, this person’s probably really obnoxious. although tbh they’re probably say it more like, “What. The fuck. Are you doing here?” wow what an asshole
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – this guy’s so pissed, this might be peter capaldi, i don’t know
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – this chick is at an exclusive party and her best friend just showed up without an invitation and at first she was just glad to see her but now she’s concerned
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – oh shit that bitch should have known better than to show her face here after what she pulled, it’s about to go down. actually that might have been her bestie right above this saying that right after someone said this.
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – not only has someone just shown up where they don’t belong but they’re doing something weird, they’re probably a secret teenage hero and all their friends think they’re on drugs
  • “What the fuck are you doing here?” – all the bars in all the world and you had to walk into mine, how did you even get here, you don’t even like bars, i didn’t tell anyone about this place i just filled a cave with some beer

advice for writing a stutterer from an actual stutterer;

okay no shade at all I just want all of u to learn and grow and become better writers! so here’s a handy tip list!

  • we don’t stutter on every word. okay, sometimes it can seem it, but honestly, we don’t, so leave a few words in there to give your readers some breathing room.
  • we stutter more on specific sounds. for me, f and s sounds are big ones. everyone has their thing and most stutterers have sounds that are harder to get out.
  • we don’t just stutter at the beginning of words and sentences. okay, honestly this is a big one for me. sometimes, a word starts off really well and goes down the drain at the second syllable! and the stutter doesn’t disappear once we’ve made it past the first word - it clings in there, so don’t forget it.
  • some of us don’t always stutter. some, not all, of us have what’s known as an anxious stutter, which generally comes alongside anxiety disorders. so, while it may be usually present, when a person with an anxious stutter is particularly comfortable with a situation, it tends to get better (or even almost disappear).
  • we don’t stutter when we swear. this is why some of us can stutter and stutter and stutter on a word and then shout fuck and everything’s cool. as far as science knows, this is because swearing is from a more primitive part of the brain, and so it bypasses the bit that makes us stutter! it’s so cool honestly.
  • we don’t stutter when we sing. the biggest two reasons for this one is 1) music comes from a different part of the brain to talking (language=left; music=right), and so it once again bypasses the stutter, or 2) ‘easy voice’, which is the voice that people sing in, is softer and smoother, and the sounds are longer so there’s less opportunity to stutter. either option is way cool but we don’t stutter when we sing.
  • sometimes, we give up on words. after a certain amount of stuttering on a certain word, you may see a stutterer take a deep breath and either try again, or replace it with a synonym. sometimes that word just won’t fit right in our mouths!
  • we hate it when people try to guess what we’re trying to say or try to speed us up. this might be a more personal thing for me, but there’s nothing I hate more than that clicky sound people make or the weird hand gestures or being told to “spit it out.” because we can’t control this shit and it gets tiring. it’s better just to let the person get it out and take their time with it, so when you’re writing, keep this in mind!
  • it gets worse when we’re anxious or stressed, and when we’re excited! I get really really stuttery when I’m enthusiastic about the topic of conversation, because I know so much about that thing that I try to talk really fast and my mouth can’t keep up! it’s the same when I’m anxious or stressed - when there’s more on our minds, the more everything gets a little muddled.

I hope this was helpful! feel free to add on and spread around!

what ‘academia is inaccessible’ means: much academic writing is financially difficult to acquire and also a lot of it builds on context and area of study-specific vocabulary that the author expects you to already be familiar with, making it difficult to ‘break in’ 

what y’all think it means: if you expect me to have any sort of background knowledge for what i’m talking about or want me to read a word with more than three syllables you want all poor disabled people to die

mark zuckerberg is inherently incapable of winning the us presidency because his name already contains a syllable that is heart-stoppingly similar to the word “cuck.” if the dems actually run him then somebody with an undercut and a frog emoji in their twitter description is going to start making cuck jokes and those will follow him for his entire campaign. i am telling you this right now, on the 6th of september 2017, and yet i cannot escape the feeling that in 2 years i will find myself caught between the scylla of voting for a man who inspirationally says things like “i am not a cuck” and the charybdis of refusing to vote, moving off the grid, and learning how to take a shit in the middle of a field without getting ticks on my ass cheeks

Star Wars” directors and writers have an ability to create iconic names. Was there anything that you got to name in this movie?

Gareth Edwards: Yeah, so as a director you’re like, “I want to get my name in there,” but how do you do it? Gary was writing and he was naming loads of things. At one point he said, “It’s your turn to name something, Gareth.” I was really looking forward to this. I’m like, “OK, this is a big deal. I’ve got to pick a good name.” I was like, “What do you want me to name?” He said, “The end planet.” The whole third-act thing. I was like, “OK, let me think about it. OK, give me a moment.” I go over to get a coffee from Starbucks. I’m thinking, “What could be the name? It could be this. Maybe we could use that?” Then at the very end, she gives me the drink and they must have asked my name and I must have said, “It’s Gareth,” but they heard “Scarif.” They wrote Scarif on the cup and I was like, “That sounds like ‘Star Wars.’” I went back in and I just give it to Gary and went, “It’s called Scarif.

yeahhsowhatever-deactivated2017  asked:

OH MY GOD YOUR OLDER BOKURO IS SO, UGH, I DON'T KNOW. I JUST LOVE THE WAY YOU DREW THEM WITH THE BABY. SO, IT'S TIME FOR SOME QUESTIONS: 1.Is it a girl or a boy? 2.Do you have any headcanons for the baby? 3.How would Bokuto and Kuroo be with their kids?

But that’s literally all I have to give you, this seriously wasn’t supposed to be more than just that one drawing haha

You know, for all of Star Trek’s Shakespeare references, I feel like “Turn death into a fighting chance to live” is such a perfect line of iambic pentameter that even the man himself would have approved.

I imagine before he got to know them, Kravitz absolutely HATED the IPRE crew. Like, the dude is competent, but the guys have a habit of completely humiliating anybody they end up fighting.

Let’s rewind a few years. Kravitz is doing his thing. Kicking ass, reaping souls and killing liches. Heads back to his office in the Astral Plane (because i refuse to believe that the afterlife is anything but a stupidly complicated bureaucracy) and checks in on his current list of bounties.

There’s the usual list of necromancers, immortals, escapees from the stockade and users of profane rituals, you know the types, the guys who have the twelve syllable names and such. But there are seven new people he needs to hunt down. And all of them have died at least eight times. You hear that? It’s the sound of Kravitz getting paid.

So who does he go after first?

Merle Highchurch, fifty-seven deaths. God. So much reward. Kravitz hunts anybody by the name of Highchurch down, but nobody has any clues as to where the guy is. Kravitz heads back to the office and checks out all the information he has on the guy. And surprise surprise, he’s a follower of the god of bloody travelers. Krav could hunt down this guy for the better part of a decade, and he’d only find the guy by luck. Great. Wonderful. Fine. He has six other bounties to check out.

Magnus Burnsides, nineteen deaths. Okay, so Magnus is MUCH easier to find than Merle, if only because Magnus announces his name to anybody who asks. Lives in somewhere called Raven’s Roost. He’d been there a few times, not a bad place. So Kravitz heads over there. And great, the entire bloody town is on FIRE and the populace is DEAD. As a reaper, he’s legally required to take care of wandering souls he finds wandering around. So he has to take a good month or so wrangling a good 600 people into the afterlife. Much to his surprise, Magnus has a wife who recently died. The woman stares at him for a moment before laughing, because apparently Magnus can get lost in a goddamn hallway and it would take a goddamn miracle for Kravitz to track him down. Goddamn it.

Taako Taaco, eight deaths. Taako is, unlike the others, a complete goddamn ghost. The most he can gather is that the guy is a wizard and an elf and that is generally it. It is by pure luck he’s assigned to the Glamour Springs case, and hears about Taako Sizzles It Up. Okay, THAT is easier to track he thinks. Except Taako apparently did a show in literally EVERY TOWN in the world at some point and is charismatic enough that nobody is willing to tell him much of anything. And then, like both Magnus and Merle, he has apparently vanished into the mist and NOBODY KNOWS WHERE HE IS GODDAMN IT.

Lup Taaco, twelve deaths. Kravitz is not surprised that Lup is related to Taako because she is even harder to find than Taako. There is literally nothing except the fact that she died in some cave near Neverwinter. There are literally no souls in that cave, and he checked. Twice. So where the hell is she? Who the hell knows. Who even cares.

Davenport, nine deaths. Is somehow just as elusive as anyone else. Because these people hate Kravitz. Kravitz checks everywhere. A few merchants in Neverwinter remember having met a guy named Davenport a few years back, and he seemed pretty cool, and he bought a can of soup once. Great. THANK YOU MERCHANT MAN. SO VERY HELPFUL.

Barry J Bluejeans, twelve deaths. Barry fucking Bluejeans. BARRY GODDAMN JAY GODDAMN BLUEJEANS. Kravitz has no end of words for this asshole. Unlike the others, Kravitz has met this guy. He has no idea what goddamn class Barry is other than a magic-user because WHAT SPELLS DOESN’T THIS GUY KNOW GODDAMN IT. Oh oh oh and get this, he’s fueled by the power of love. Love. As if a normal lich isn’t annoying enough to deal with, but this guy apparently refuses to leave without his wife. A wife who, COINCIDENTALLY, has the name of LUP. And Kravitz knows. He goddamn knows, in the depths of his heart, that this Lup is the exact same one as Lup Taaco. BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE HATES HIM.

Lucretia, ten deaths. Somehow even worse than Taako, Davenport and Lup combined. Because he has nothing on her. At all. No class, no god, no spell-list, no ANYTHING. Alright. Fine. Detective Kravitz time. Her name is spoken very very rarely, and she is apparently the leader of some mysterious organization called a Bureau? Fine. Where is this Bureau. What’s that? It’s hidden? You can only summon a way there if you’re a member? Of course. Obviously. Wonderful. Why not. Cool. Great.

So now. Let’s advance to the start of the story. Kravitz is called out to investigate Phandalin. He arrives, and is immediately hit by a wave of pure fire. When he wakes up? He sees four figures in the distance. And three of them are Magnus. And Merle. And Taako. And Kravitz is about to fight them, when a goddamn orb appears from the sky and carries them to a goDDAMN SKY BASE WHAT THE HELL I HATE THESE PEOPLE

And then he finally meets these people by complete chance in the lab of Lucas Miller. And he is so happy. Because for the first time in six years, he has THREE OF THESE JACKASSES in front of him. There is no possible way they can escape this.

Guess what happens next.

So now, finally, let’s advance to post-Story & Song. And he has all seven of these assholes in front of him. Defenseless. He could reap their asses right now. But he can’t. Because the Raven Queen has declared they’ve earned a pardon.

A few hours after the celebration party, Kravitz warps back to his office and screams for a solid hour.

EDIT: Somebody mentioned the whole Barry dies like twenty times over the course of a decade so now I have to establish that at least five of those were Barry staring Kravitz dead in the face, killing himself instantly and rising out of his body as a lich. Just so that Kravitz can know EXACTLY how petty Barry Bluejeans will be.

lately i’ve been thinking a lot about the specificity of language. everyone always talks about how english has one word for love, i’m bored of that. i think a lot about how we have a word for a sign of things to come (portent) and how we have a word for freeing someone of sin (absolve), we have a word for a sudden outburst of any kind of activity (paroxysm). today my brother taught me wayzgoose: “an entertainment given by a master printer to his workmen each year on or about St. Bartholomew’s Day”. 

i think about this in a kiss, how we purse our lips, how we press into each other, how kiss is a small word for an action that feels big - i think about how we have french kiss, how we have a smack on the cheek, a peck. i think about this when we make eye contact, how we have “a moment” that passes between two people like an envelope, one that reads of more, more, more - i think of who gave us the names for obscure things. how shakespeare gave us elbow, and what did we call it beforehand. 

what word is there for the way your eyes look when you talk about your favorite thing. we have phosphorescence, the property of emitting light, but that’s not right. what word is there for how it feels with the floor against your back while you’re watching sunbeams filter dust motes. there’s languid, relaxed, but that doesn’t work. what word is there for how it feels beside your best friend, listening to them laugh, knowing this moment is a pocket that keeps all of the good things inside, one i will tuck myself into again and again, one i am somehow distant from even though i’m enjoying it: watching the moment become a memory i think of fondly, even while it’s happening. 

there’s kissing, there’s leaning in, there’s words for summer and fireflies in jars and fall creeping in. there’s words for leaves and the smoke in the air from breathing and there’s words for the fire of a sunset on an autumn evening. i think about how we made words for things. the oxford dictionary gives us 171,476 current words to make sense of things. how we let poets give us syllables for how it feels to fall into someone’s arms (melting) and someone who talks a lot (gregarious) and vast burning (conflagration). the beauty of language is we have a word for that until we don’t have a word for that and then poetry comes in. 

if i kiss you i think: portent. if i kiss you i think of telling you here is where our lips purse here is where my sins absolve here is the paroxysm of my heart. i kiss you and i think: what words do other people use when they need to fill in the emptiness of “love”. do they think conflagration, the misery of scorching, or do they think of slow burning. do they think portent. do they think of kisses as french or as just kisses, no purses or bow lips. when they lean in do they melt into it. when they love, is it just that? something specific? or do they mean “the spaces around this word say more than the letters i’m given.”

Quality Nadiya moments

  • “Is it mandatory?”
  • “So why doesn’t everyone introduce themselves?” “Nadiya leaves to go request a song”
  • Repeatedly requesting “she blinded me with science”
  • “You want me to pause what I’M doing to help you stack your burgers”
  • Writing formulas on cocktail napkins for funsies
  • “I was only working on life-saving technology, but I’ll be sure to get you that Wendy’s recipt.”
  • 3 syllables into Joe telling her to lighten up Travis added that she doesn’t care for Joe in the group chat
  • Threatening to ruin another person’s entire career while “walking on sunshine” plays in the background
  • The pure disdain she holds for Remy and everything he stands for
  • “And I made it and you’re welcome”
  • “Can everyone stop talking about my miracle of science like it’s disgusting?”
  • Rolling up her sleeve to show where she grafted biopolymer to her own skin when they wouldn’t approve human testing “and now I’m in the running for a Nobel Prize”
  • “Is it mandatory?” “You know with you i’m just gonna start saying everything’s mandatory”

“So which of us is going to change their name?” Harry asks one night, smiling as though it’s a joke, a secret, undressed and glowing against the white sheets on their bed.

(They’ve been engaged for four days. Draco asked; after dinner one night and almost by accident, because he never could shake the feeling that Harry might pull someone better out of thin air, on a whim, move into an apartment in Westminster with a rich banker, an artist, someone who’d never broken his nose or hated him deeply or tried to kill him.)

(Draco sometimes thinks: he’s so stupid for this and how could he love me and maybe something’s gone awfully wrong and my whole life is just some eighth-year post-war fever dream and I’m going to wake up any second in my bed in the dorms.)

It’s not a joke, Draco doesn’t think. And it’s not a dream, either.

“Me, obviously,” he replies seriously, rolls his eyes a bit. A long time ago the answer would have been different. They both know it.

Harry frowns, just a little. “Yeah?” he asks. “You don’t want to keep your name?” he says, and even though he’s making it sound like a question, it isn’t really a question.

Draco looks at him and thinks about Harry with his name, and how it would sound in his mouth. Malfoy. Years and years and years of history in those two syllables, most of it awful. It was his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name, and once it would have been the name he gave to his children.

“Not particularly,” Draco says, and kisses Harry’s bare, brown shoulder, because it’s there and because he feels like it. Then he amends himself. “Not at all actually, not in the slightest.”

Draco feels sick at the thought of Harry having to go anywhere near it. The Malfoy name doesn’t deserve a person like Harry. He’s done more good things in his short life than have occurred in the entire history of Draco’s family, probably.

They’re both silent for a moment. “You just want to be a Potter,” Harry says lightly, instead of any number of other things, and Draco is abruptly grateful for him. He’d probably die if Harry decided to leave him for a banker, even though that prospect is looking less and less likely as the years pass.

“Yes,” he says instead, helplessly, helpless to deny it. “I’d like to be a Potter.” Because it’s your name.

And it almost hurts, baring himself, until Harry grins at the ceiling like that’s the best thing he’s ever heard. And maybe it is. 

Draco says it again, just in case.

I am in my own Harry Potter AU hell.

And just because I can:

“Dad…” 

Malfoy looked up from his desk, quill poised over the parchment as his son hovered by the study door. Aware that he was frowning, Draco lifted his expression into something more neutral. He was vaguely aware of his own father always frowning whenever he’d tried to talk to him as a boy, and he didn’t want Scorpius to one day think the same about him.

“Come in, come in. Shut the door, you’ll let the heat out.” 

The Greengrass estate was a crumbling ruin compared to Malfoy Manner, with only half the library and none of the artifacts Draco had spent the last few years archiving and putting safely away behind spelled glass. But for now it was home, chilly stone walls and all.

“Did you want something?”

“Yes.” Scorpius replied, pausing to tug at the hem of his dark shirt. There’s still a bruise under his eye, faded to be sure, but the mere presence of it made Draco’s heart skip a beat. When he’d seen Severus Potter crawling out of the rubble, face covered in blood and no sign of his own son, he’d known terror like no other.

And Draco Malfoy was intimately familiar with the machinations of terror. He’d been hugged by it once.

“Well,” he prompted, setting aside his work entirely and giving his full attention to his son. “What is it?”

“I want my friends to come visit.”

Draco blinked. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Your…friends?”

“Albus Potter and Rosie Granger-Weasley. I would like them to come stay.”

Draco blinked again. Later he’d laugh—somewhat despairingly into a decanter of fire brandy—at the absurdity of the notion that his boy, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, was best friends with a Potter and the hybrid off-spring of a Granger Weasley, but the threat of impeding hysterics was quelled under the defiant gaze of his son, narrow chin lifting at some unspoken challenge. 

“I see. For how long?”

“A…a week…maybe two…They’re going to France for the Quiditch Cup Primaries…” he glanced down and Draco spied the curled up parchment hidden up his sleeve. “So it wouldn’t be for long.”

Draco glanced at his desk, to the fireplace, then back to his son. “I don’t…”

I want my friends…friendshow often had Astoria lamented his lack of playmates as a child, how often had she fretted that Scorpius’ only interaction had been with adults—or books, or enchanting his own toys for someone to play with. And how quickly had Scorpius’ face crumpled at the utterance of two simple syllables. 

“…know if two weeks would be wise, given your mother’s health. She’s still recovering from the move. But I shall discuss it with her, and see what can be done.”

Scorpius stilled, the beaming smile on his face reigned in to something calmer, even now, not wanting to get his hopes up too much. “Thank you. For what it’s worth, we will be good.”

Draco snorted at that, remembering the last time a Malfoy, a Potter and a Granger and a Weasley had been together at their age. “Somehow I doubt it. Go on off you go, go see what your mother is up to. She’s enjoying having you home.”

“And I am enjoying being here,” Scorpius replied, in that curiously courteous and stiff way of speaking he’d always had, even as an infant learning his words. “I am happy to be here, with you, and mother.”

“I’m…very glad to hear it.” Draco replied, unsure what else he was supposed to say to such an open admission said so politely like one was discussing the weather. “Now go on, off you go, I need to finish this manuscript before I lose the thought.”

“You’ll talk to mother though, wont you?” Scorpius pressed from his space by the door. “You’ll ask…”

“Yes, yes.” Draco waved a hand, “I’ll ask if the Potter spawn can come stay with us. Just for a little bit. To say thank you for…everything.”

Reassured, Scorpius left, closing the door behind himself with a firm click. 

Draco waited several more moments, counting to a hundred before opening up the top desk of his drawer and pulling out his correspondence folder, flipping through them until he found the appropriate manila envelope, writing the address of the Ministry Neatly to the front. 

Clearing his throat politely, he composed himself, then tapped it to life with his wand.

“Hello Potter,” he spat with a vicious familiar glee, unable to keep from laughing, “I’m not sure which one of us is going to be more surprised by this turn of events, but I swear to gods if you break my son’s heart by saying no, I will personally send you a red Howler on the hour every hour till the day one of us dies. Now, about dates, the last week in June works well for us…”