teachers retirement

Congressman Rod Blum in a Dubuque town hall (Monday) night asked, ‘Why should a 62-year-old man have to pay for maternity care?’ I ask, why should I pay for a bridge I don’t cross, a sidewalk I don’t walk on, a library book I don’t read? Why should I pay for a flower I won’t smell, a park I don’t visit or art I can’t appreciate? Why should I pay the salaries of politicians I didn’t vote for, a tax cut that doesn’t affect me or a loophole I can’t take advantage of?
—  Barbara Rank, a retired Iowa teacher, in response to Blum’s defense of the AHCA. Read more about the letter she wrote to her local paper.

anonymous asked:

Is your former teacher aware that you live off of art now?

nope! not sure she would care, either. BUT i did get a kind of petty sort of “IN YOUR FACE” moment my senior year @ this teacher, though

she actually retired when i was entering my senior year, and she was replaced with a teacher that was coming in from another school. this teacher was really nervous, and couldn’t quite find a footing. she was afraid she would make the art department look bad

i was one of, i think, 3 advanced art students??? and she told us “do whatever you want, pick a subject from this, interpret it, it’s fine” because she was just stressed with the workload

at the end of that year, our school was placed into something called the “art conference show” which showcased and rewarded students in the visual arts from 8 different schools. in that show i won best in painting, students’ choice, and best of show. i had to get interviewed. it was absolutely terrifying

but the new teacher was so relieved, she thanked me. and that teacher that told me i had absolutely no future in this field stayed in town so i know her hearing about it wasn’t something she could avoid


if you have an art teacher that’s supportive right up until you mention you’re serious, take no shit. go behind this teacher’s back, and work. and work and work. there comes a point where you can learn faster than what’s being taught. do the assignments, get work done, and then advance yourself. if you’re in high school, you don’t have to rely on their blessing to advance.

For Sixpenceee-Glitch in the Matrix (personal)

My Best Friend Never Existed

Her name was Alex. And I swear to god she was real. She was my best friend in the 1st grade. Most people shake me off when I tell them that I knew her when I was just six or seven, because it’s hard to remember things at that age. True, I may not remember a lot of things from my first grade adventures, but I sure remember her. She was my best friend. She was beautiful (as beautiful as a 1st grader can be, at least). I remember her short blonde hair, her hazel-green eyes, and the red hoodie that she wore almost daily. She was fun, mischievous, and sad. There were problems at home, especially with her dad. She lived with her mom, as her parents were divorced. Now that I’m older, I think that her dad abused them. She was usually upset about her dad waiting outside on the lawn in the mornings to apologize and her mom arguing with him until he left. We would play adventure games on the swings and watch over the playground from the top of the highest slides. I spent every second with her. We sat together at lunch and in class and we read next to each other during reading time. I never went to her house in fear that her father would show up, but I distinctly remember her spending the night at my house. We would make blanket forts and spy on my older sister to hear the latest 5th grader gossip. We spent most weekends together. She came to my seventh birthday too. I remember making her invitation special, just for her, with stickers and special notes on the inside. I know she was there. She destroyed the pinata with a few swings and everyone else was upset with her because she ruined their turn. We grabbed all of the candy our shirts could carry and ran away from the birthday crowd into the “Girl’s Club,” a wooden shed that my dad had put carpet into so that we could have a special place. I remember when she fell off the monkey bars and broke her arm. My dad was on the playground visiting and helped her to the nurse’s office. Her cast was pink. I signed it. Then, one day, when we were waiting to be picked up after school, she seemed upset when her car pulled up. She said that it was her dad picking her up. We said our goodbyes and gave best friend hugs and then she got into the car.

That was the last day I ever saw her. I never questioned whether she was real or not until a few years ago. My aunt is a teacher at my old elementary school and sometimes she has get togethers with other teachers, both retired and currently employed. One day I ran into my 1st grade teacher at one of these get togethers and started to talk about how crazy I was in the 1st grade. When I mentioned Alex, my teacher’s face turned blank. She had no idea who I was talking about. I reminded her that we spent every second together—practically inseparable. But she still hadn’t a clue. She told me that I spent most of my time talking to students around the class and spent most of my recesses inside to read—I never really hung out with just one person, apparently. I mentioned the monkey bars incident. What’s scary is, and everyone agrees with this, I was the one who fell off the monkey bars and I have no recollection of this. I decided to ignore her cluelessness, as she was growing old and had probably lost some memory. Still, I was a little put off by her inability to remember Alex, so I decided to ask some friends that I went to elementary school with. No one knew who she was or remembered her ever being my friend or even going to our school. I tried to recall as many things about her physical appearance that I could, but every person I spoke with denied her presence at our school, including other teachers. This is where things turned strange. I decided to check in the yearbook, so that I could show everyone her picture and jog their memories. I remember picture day; we traded lip gloss tubes. As much as I looked, she was not in the yearbook. I looked through every page, at every photo, and every caption in hopes of finding her picture, her name, anything. She wasn’t there anywhere. I resulted in asking my parents if they remembered my friend Alex in the 1st grade. They told me that I didn’t have any friends named Alex. I had a few imaginary friends, but I’m positive that she was real. Imaginary friends don’t break pinatas. They don’t break arms and have casts that your classmates signed. They don’t trade lip gloss with you. She was real. She was real… I looked through our VCR tapes for a video of my 1st grade birthday party, but the film was ruined. The hard drive that carried the photos from that party was dropped and destroyed a few months before my search for my old friend. It’s like she never existed.

My best friend never existed.

Fix the vote, lose your jobs.

This one is pretty complicated and long, so it is hard to know where to start. I had a music teacher in high-school that got let go for seemingly no reason. Many of us suspected that he was removed because the administration thought he was gay or bisexual, not sure if he was though, he later married a woman if I remember correctly. Back when I was in high school it was still difficult to be gay and stay a teacher. Because he got let go without an explanation and he was a much loved teacher, a few of the students, including myself, confronted the administration about the termination both in private meetings and at a school board meeting. In all instances we were not given an explanation for the termination, I was young and probably did not understand the legality at the time. But in hindsight it makes sense that they said nothing.

Keep reading

anyway now that ive got this in my head,,, ti teacher au

markus is the drama teacher

gregor is gym teacher (or possibly some kind of healthy living class??)

kyr runs an engineer/robotics class (everyones lowkey shocked its lasted so long considering the amount of explosions)

ballast is an annoying substitute and everyone loves when he comes if only because he and markus get in a fight Every Single Time

karen is principal n thog is vice principal who Actually Does All The Work mayb??????

firi’s a para

idk what inien or ashe would be yet but ???? idk i enjoy this


Nobody likes to be unfairly judged on their physical appearance and there is something truly disheartening about a witch hunt based on the appearance of somebody. In December 2010, 25-year-old Joanna Yeates was strangled to death. Her landlord, Christopher Jefferies, a retired English teacher was called in for questioning. The media immediately zoned in on his “strange” appearance, indicating that this alone was evidence that he was the one who killed her. A number of newspapers published slandering and mocking articles, with one implying that he was gay because he disliked sports and one berating him for wearing a “cheesy” scarf and calling him a “peeping Tom.” Everything spread in these newspapers was unfounded and complete slander. After months of being treated like a creep and murderer, Yeates’ neighbour, Vincent Tabak, confessed to the murder.


Maybe one of the most exciting training experiences I’ve had with Lio was just now when we were working on step-up with the stool.

It’s kind of a big jump to go from a book to a stool, but with all the stair-climbing we’ve been doing I figured he could handle it and I was right! But what was really exciting was moving the stool to the window and asking Lio to step up and, after getting up on the stool, seeing him realize that he could now see out of the window. He’s been trying so hard to look out all week and it’s tough because he loves windows and the windows at my parent’s place are perfect Lio height. It’s a small thing but I’ll take every victory we can get this week.

I’m so glad I was able to get a picture of the lightbulb moment (first picture) and of the first time he went to look out the window on his own (second picture).

anonymous asked:

What would you want to do if you weren't a skater?

I want to be a teacher when I retire. Probably Literature or History.

Well, we have to retire at some point… I never liked the idea of college, but Beka has been trying to convince me lately. 

Maybe something with Medicine? It’s the only subject i’m actually interested in.

what i hated most about taking piano lessons was that my teacher expected perfection.

i used to go to a music school for weekend lessons, and she taught me, an 8 year old, music theory. i was eight! how was i supposed to be able to apply that to composition and sheet music?

when my teacher retired, i searched for a new one. my new teacher had a grand piano in her living room, but it was full of soft couches and she let me do my homework in the kitchen. she didn’t care as much about music theory, and when the structured books were too easy for me she recommended other classical pieces. she let me choose what i wanted to play and how i wanted to play it. it wasn’t perfect - i still don’t understand music theory or history. but it was better.

i went back to my old teacher, to see if i could pick up music theory again. i played für elise at the first lesson, as a diagnostic test of sorts. she told me i was playing all wrong - my fingering was wrong, and beethoven wanted it this way. i didn’t understand. beethoven was long dead - why would he care how a 14 year old from california played his pieces as long as it sounded good? sometimes the piece sounds angry, sometimes it’s longing and sad.

music should not be about perfection and playing it exactly the way the sheet music says. it should be about emotion.

if every pianist played für elise the same way, what would be the point of listening to classical music?


💁🏻 Here are example sentences for each word:

  • The new budget was submitted with the president’s imprimatur. ✅
  • The student’s superlative writing skills was fully evident in her essay. 👩🏻‍🎓✍🏻
  • Unable to resist temptation, the boy purloined the candy bar when nobody was looking. 👦🏻🍫
  • The minatory roar of the lion left us trembling. 🦁😱
  • The expert debater exposed and tore apart her opponent’s sophistry with ease.
  • Every morning, Henry rubs his slumberous eyes and wonders why he has to wake up so early.
  • The entire town rejoiced when the cantankerous mayor suddenly resigned and was replaced by a gregarious retired teacher.

On 15 June, 2017, 54-year-old retired teacher Marina Mirgaleeva of Saint Petersburg disappeared with her 1-month-old granddaughter. On 12 p.m., a bloody baby blanket was discovered in the woods. On 2 a.m. Marina Mirgaleeva was found near a creek. She was almost frozen and her wrists were slit. Near her was her dead granddaughter. Marina Mirgaleeva said that that the world doesn’t need her and her granddaughter, and that they are evil, and that’s why she strangled the baby and tried to kill herself.

anonymous asked:

garderenza backstory headcanons pleaseeee xxx

I feel like other people have done this better, but sure, i’ll give it a shot!

  • they are both masters of their craft when they meet. royalty (some far-flung noble, in Italy or Spain or Prussia) has brought together the best musicians in the world, and the courtiers are told to keep the maestro and the madame apart, whatever it takes. musicians are famous for their egos—and no one is more famous than Garderobe, the reigning queen of opera, and Cadenza, master of the harpsichord. Cadenza has been known to throw people from his room for daring to question a note—and Garderobe, people say, turns sulky and silent if not given her due attention.
  • it’s utterly no problem to give her attention, of course. the lady has the voice of angels, jewels, kings, gods—no description covers the rapture when she decides to sing.
  • and cadenza—why, everyone loves cadenza’s songs. Of course, his playing is a bit sharp, a bit too precise, people say. A little too well-done. He’s never been in love, say his teachers, how is he to play with passion otherwise? He has the skill but not the reason.
  • Anyway, so, the servants are given their orders: keep the musicians away from each other. They’d compete and get cross and we shan’t have our musical revue, says the King.
  • On different sides of the palace, separated by a courtyard, Cadenza and Garderobe unpack their bags and lay out their clothes. Their schedules are planned down to a minute. The two shall never cross, not if his majesty’s servants get their way. Garderobe requests a cup of honey and lemon to warm up her voice. Cadenza’s been up for 15 hours and asks for a cup of coffee to keep himself going.
  • The performance is in an hour. Cadenza sits at the harpsichord he’s requested for his private room and plays one note.
  • Across the courtyard, Garderobe opens her window and warms her throat with one descending scale.
  • The intersection of the notes is not heard in the palace. The courtyard’s fountain is noisy—the ivy climbing the walls damps the noise—the cries of serving-boys and rich coquettes are all more pressing. But Cadenza hears it.
  • Garderobe is surprised by the sound of the note against her voice, but keeps going. There aren’t any more after it. The palace is quiet beyond the yells and the cries and the fountains and ivy and horses and stomping and dancing and running and cooking and baking and thinking and doing. She warms up to higher notes, longer scales, a brighter sound.
  • Across the courtyard, Cadenza sits at the harpsichord, not touching it for once in his life. For once his hands do not hit the keys, but rest forgotten on their ivory backs. The concentration of his face has lapsed and he looks like he is lost.
  • No more notes. Garderobe keeps going—descending, ascending, sending her voice to new and different places. She goes for the most difficult exercise yet, one that makes her jump between vastly different notes exactly on pitch—
  • And is surprised by the keys and notes suddenly intertwining around her voice, drifting in from her open window, springing in all around the gaps and lulls of her voice to complement it with arpeggios and accents. The musician behind the sound is building on her voice in a way she’s never heard before. Garderobe has always had rather condescending opinions toward harpsichordists—always banging away behind her voice, or running too much ahead, or just hitting the notes and not the way she feels them—but this experience denies them all, and smacks her in the face with power and sensitivity.
  • She reaches for the highest note she can, and the music cuts off immediately. She is immediately disappointed; again, she has outrun the competition, again rebuked an artist with her mastery. She holds the note, more from habit than anything else.
  • and slowly, slowly, quietly, pianissimo, hears the harpsichord climbing back to her. She is gobsmacked—that wasn’t a silence, that wasn’t shame, that was an intentional pause, done by a fellow artist, because he recognized the weight just her pure voice had at that moment. He had put the music above himself, above his own playing, above embarrassment or envy.
  • The musician, whoever he or she is, finishes the cadence totally attuned to her. She stops and listens, listens hard, trying to hear over the fountain and the palace who could be such a maestro.
  • Loudly, from all the way across the courtyard: “KEEP SINGING!”
  • A tiny figure in a giant wig waves to her, gestures. “AGAIN! AGAIN!”
  • She lets out one long, shrill note of recognition.
  • When it is time for the concert, the servants, proud of their ability to manage it so well as to keep the artists caged in their rooms all day, strut to the doors and knock with confident hands.
  • “Maestro? It is time to begin. If you would just follow me here, down the eastern staircase.”
  • “Mademoiselle? The western staircase, please.” 
  • “Maestro?”
  • “Mademoiselle?”
  • Tea and coffee are spilled as the servants search the rooms. There is no opera singer. There is no harpsichord master. In consequence, there shall be no musical revue.
  • In the back labyrinth Cadenza kisses Garderobe’s hand, shyly. She laughs and drops her glove for him. They walk beneath orange trees and talk a little, and he asks that she sing, and he hums the notes beside her, his eyes lost on her face.
  • They never perform for that King, not in that palace. But they are always grateful to him, and send him flowers, now and then, and crates of tea and coffee. “If it weren’t for that courtyard,” they say, “we might not have heard the other. How clever your servants were to place us so we should meet.”
  • Cadenza’s music mellows out; his teachers retire with smiles on their faces. “He learned to love,” they say, even before they are told.
  • Garderobe’s voice reaches higher notes, transcends beyond the heavens. If anyone could look away before, no one does so now. They court, they marry, they travel the world. One day they decide to visit Villeneuve. They heard the prince there did not appreciate the tenderness of music, but gold coins are catching, and the two have a weak spot for cake and company and lavish balls. Afterward, on to Florence, and then Vienna. Glamor, music, each and the other, they need not live in Villeneuve.
  • Cadenza tunes his instrument, Garderobe warms her throat. Their eyes meet and her hand touches his face. Then she turns to the partygoers and starts to sing.
  • One night in Villeneuve.

New Zealand Students giving intense Haka Farewell to their retiring Teacher

anonymous asked:

I've wanted an oriental longhair for years but can never seem to find them for sale. Im aware that the breeder that you purchased Pangur from got their cats seized but could you recommend any other breeders that breed oriental longhairs in Canada? Thank you :-)

it’s a pretty rare breed in Canada, but there’s a few scattered catteries:

Balilas Balinese is balinese cattery in Ontario run by a lovely retired school-teacher. Pangur’s grandfather (Dezi Neko) comes from this cattery! I’ve included a photo to show that they have a slightly more traditional aesthetic.

Balimoor is an oriental longhair & balinese cattery in Alberta. I’ve heard bad things about them, so I would steer clear. Balimoor also appears in Pangur’s pedigree a lot.

Toreador Cats is another OLH cattery in Alberta - I don’t know anything about them, so all I can say is research these dudes before making a decision?

Practical Cats in Toronto is FABULOUS! they breed OSH & Siamese, but one of their cats (Fluffy) carries a gene for longhair. it might be worth contacting them to see if they plan on breeding oriental longhairs in the future.

12.13 Coda: God Save the Queen

“So, the teachers at the girls’ school are all back to work,” Dean says. “It’s like nothing ever happened. That’s all the victims in Ohio.”

“Well, no mention of the Massachusetts murder either.” Sam’s still peering at his laptop, but it’s clear there’s nothing to be found. “No Fiona, no angry ghost. Looks like history’s back on track. Thank you, Gavin.”

“Yeah, but… I can’t put a check in the win column just yet. This has all been too easy.”

“It is a little too perfect, isn’t it?”

“Hey, Sam? Think you could find a list of the crew and passengers from the Star?”

Sam frowns. “Probably. Why?” His fingers tap at the keys without waiting for an answer. “Yeah, here’s a crew list and passenger manifest. Oh. Oh.” He looks up at Dean, eyes wide. “Gavin isn’t listed as the captain.”

Dean nods. “And I bet Fiona’s not on the passenger list either.”

“Jesus.” Sam leans back and runs his hands through his hair. “I just assumed Rowena set up the spell to put them back on the ship. It didn’t even occur to me…”

“That sneaky little witch,” Dean laughs. “She sent him back early. Fiona’s not a vengeful spirit because she didn’t die on the ship! Neither of them did!”

Sam laughs too, but it’s a little uneasy. “That’s… that’s kind of dangerous, right? Messing with history like that?”

Dean looks around him and shrugs. “Bunker’s still here. Internet’s still here. Beer still exists. I’d say everything’s okay.” He waves his half-empty bottle. “Speaking of beer… we’re out. I’m gonna go on a beer run. You wanna come with?”

But Sam doesn’t answer. He’s still staring at the computer screen. “Dean… You’ve got your wallet on you? Look at your money.”

“Dammit, I’ve got money. I’m not asking you to pay. I’m just asking if you want to go.”

“Dean. Shut up and look at your money.”

Dean sighs his best long-suffering sigh, pulls the wallet out of his pocket, and takes out a bill.


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The Admiral 

Pic was submitted via a sweet lil anon and I wrote an imagine to go along with it. Over the course of the year,your relationship with Niall had gotten a lot more serious to the point where you were both ready for the next step.Marriage. There was only one small obstacle,your father was an old fashioned type who insisted on giving his blessing.

“Niall,”,you said from your spot at the dressing table in your bedroom where you were brushing your hair,“come on,you’ve talked to mum and dad before,they love you.”

“I know,I know…but your sister’s boyfriend asked and your dad said no,”,he said flopping back on the bed,running a hand through his hair anxiously.

You sighed and joined him on the bed,tucking your knees under you,taking his hand in yours and squeezing it softly as if trying to juice his tension out. “It’ll be alright,Ni,” 

“It’s not that I mind…it’s just your dad,y/n…you know he doesn’t think I have a real job.He thinks I’m some strung out star child with no real aspirations..thinks that of your brother-in-law too,“,Niall said turning over on his side away from me. 

 Your dad was a Navy Admiral who brought his air of discipline and strict rules with him wherever he went while your mum was a more relaxed retired preschool teacher who had a knack for baking.They met on your dad’s last deployment when your mum was working in the middle East teaching English.They complimented each other’s personality because they were polar opposites so it was no surprise to either of their families when they fell in love.

Growing up,your dad always encouraged you to do the right thing and the practical thing;a practical education,a practical house a practical job,it’s surprising that he didn’t ship you off to the Navy years ago.Niall,however, had an awesome job ,that wasn’t the career path for most, but it made him happy and paid the bills but your dad didn’t see that.He saw him as some rock-star with his head in the clouds. 

 "It’ll be fine,Ni..if he brings up your job just tell him about it and don’t feel shy.You’re proud of what you do and I’m proud of you,”,You say running a hand through his hair,your eyes holding nothing but compassion and truth.

You hear the doorbell ring and your mother’s voice downstairs.Niall groaned, shielding his face with his hands,“Tell them I’m not home,“ 

“No way,get your ass up.I didn’t clean this damn house and cook for you to hide.”

You almost drag Niall down the stair case and straightened out his button up at the bottom of the stairs.”You’ll do fine,Ni,I promise.” You smooth down your light wash jeans and adjust your top before Niall opens the door and you both greet your parents warmly.

“Oh honey!It’s so nice to see you again,”,mum says throwing her arms around you.You smile and bury your face in her neck,inhaling that special old lady smell of cookies and giggle when some stray grey hairs tickle your ears.When you pull away,dad’s standing behind her,arms folded behind his back and legs spread shoulder’s width apart a smile on his face.

“Admiral,”,you say with mock salute,”,permission to hug?”

“Permission granted,”,your dad replies his voice gruff with age but his eyes youthful and sweet.You barrel into your father’s chest and despite age he picks you up and twirls you around like you’re five again.

From the corner of your eye you see Niall and your mum chatting avidly probably about food because mum loves to cook and Niall loves to eat.

“Horan!”,dad says,his voice booming and bouncing off the walls and Niall jump slightly,”nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too Admiral y/l/n”, you could practically feel Niall’s discomfort but you were calm about the situation.

Niall shakes hands with you dad and you can see the agony in Niall’s eyes because dad decides to squeeze extra hard.

You and mum go to the kitchen and talk about what hotel they’re staying at and how things are back home while taking the food out of the oven. Throughout dinner,Niall casts you worried looks and is clenching his hand trying to get his circulation going.By sunset,you’re on the backyard deck in the middle of small talk when something leads to dad talking about how he and mum met and mum gets all cozy.She reaches for dad’s hand like the sweethearts they are and while she’s doe-eyed for him he couldn’t look more proud to be with her.They’re all heart eyed and loved up and you look at Niall and he glances back at you and you both coo at how adorable they are.

When you make the move to get dessert,dad thanks you for the meal and you jump at the chance to brag about Niall.

“You know dad,Niall helped cook this too.”,you say confidently,pride dripping from your words.Niall smiled up at you a silent ‘thanks’.

“Oh yeah,”,dad started,”Horan struck me as more of an eater than a cooker,”and dad is chuckling in his seat.

Niall blushes and mumbles doing the ‘so so’ action with his hand,”A bit of both,”

Mum throws you an apologetic look and helps you in the kitchen,moments later you emerge with cake when dad and Niall are prattling off about golf.You thank the universe because you half expected Niall to have shrivelled up and died of embarrassment.

“Hey y/n/n,how come you never told me Horan here plays golf?’’,dad asks when you come into sight again and you shrug and act like you don’t know because you’d prayed they’d talk about it and form some type of common ground.

“If you’d like Admiral y/l/n,there’s this golf course I go to,if you’d like we could go tomorrow,”,Niall asked a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“I don’t see why not,”,dad says leaning back in his seat I can see Niall relax for the first time all day and I breathe a sigh of relief.

That night,after your parents had left,Niall could barely he can barely sleep because of the anxiety bubbling away like a pot in his tummy and you try not to show it but you know you’re nervous too but you’re keeping the faith for Niall.

The next morning came too quickly for your liking and before you know it,you’re on the golf greens under the soothing morning sun and playing teams-boys against girls.

When you’ve gotten a moment alone with mum you tell her that Niall wants to propose and she smiles knowingly.

“How?”,you ask puzzled.

“Niall hid the ring in the back of your cutlery drawer.I saw it when I went to get the forks for the cake.”

You’re beaming with excitement now because you know that’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home.

Niall and dad are sitting in the cart,under the shade of a tree.Your dad glances over at Niall at his smile and follows the direction of his eyes,seeing they’re focused on you,holding nothing but adoration and pride in them.He breathes out a chuckle and leans on the steering wheel of the cart.

“Is something wrong,Admiral y/l/n?”,Niall asks looking over at your dad.

“Why’d you fly me all the way out here Horan?’’,he asks in a voice coarse with age.

“Sir, I’ve knows y/n for a year and-”

“Cut the crap,Horan.”

“I want to marry y/n and I wanted your blessing,”

The air between them gets humid and thick and Niall feels his sweat turn cold as it drips down his spine.A second feels like a millennium of waiting.

“Okay,”,dad said and Niall double takes and gives himself whiplash at the rate he spun around to look at your dad.

“Okay?That’s it?”,Niall asks mouth agape thinking that this man is bullshitting him.

“Yes,here is my blessing,what you want it on a silver platter?”,your dad snaps.

“No Admiral,it’s just..y/n’s brother-in-law..you called him a day dreamer because he didn’t have a practical job..this past week I’ve been obsessing over your approval because I thought you’d say no for the same reason.”

“Niall, y/n’s brother in law is a deadbeat who’s 33 and still lives with his parents.“ Niall deadpanned because damn he didn’t know that. “Now listen,you may not be a doctor or a lawyer or something fancy that ends with ‘ologist’ but you got a job that you enjoy that pays well and you’re passionate about it.You treat my y/n right,she‘s happy ,she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her when she’s with you.Yeah,she’s my babygirl but if I had to pick from all the yahoos and jarheads out there,I’d pick you.Don’t make me regret saying that.”

You hear cheering from the cart and you turn around to see your dad is being squeezed to death by Niall.Your dad looks like he’s about to kill Niall and Niall looks like a ball of sunshine.

“Congrats,honey,”mum says,nudging the ball into the hole.

“Thanks mum,”,you say updating your score card.


“You just called me Niall,does this mean you’re a low key softie,sir?’’

“Stop talking,Horan.”

“Sir,when you said I was passionate,did it remind you of yourself when you were in the Navy?”

“I will shoot you.”

“Can I call you dad-”

“Honey!We’re leaving!”

anonymous asked:

I just finished watching Wreckers and have some questions about it. I kinda liked the film, the performance of the 3 actors was amazing. But I don't really understand the ending. The audio of the movie was so low and sometimes the scenes were so dark. So, why couldn't David and Dawn have a child? Did David do something bad to Nick when they're young? Where did Nick go at the end? Could you explain the film a bit? I really love your blog. Thanks!

hey :-) and thank you so very very much. really. 

well, first of all, i love wreckers with a heat of a thousand suns. i think it’s a psychological masterpiece and there’s a reason rotten tomatoes has given it 91% (x). 

first of all so you don’t have to listen to me go on and on; your questions.

1. i think dictynna hood made the film murky, and dark. so that we were supposed to be as in the dark as dawn was. at least we were encouraged to piece it together they way she does; with glimpses and suggestions, and half-caught moments of dialogue. and behaviours that seem desperate and yet also obsfucatory. as if they’re hiding something. i love how we’re never spoon-fed anything in this piece. (oops sorry going on again). 

2. david has a low sperm count; but why he doesn’t tell dawn is actually (to me) unclear. maybe it’s because he’s trying so hard to be something he thinks she wants “you’ve changed, you have, you’ve gone all posh” nick notices… and deep down david is as insecure and as damaged as nick is. those half-smiles and awkward attempts at fraternal intimacy are done SO brilliantly by benedict. 

3. they were both horribly abused as kids “thwack thwack” the retired teachers says in a disturbingly robotic way. i think in that farmhouse some horrors happened; and violence begets violence. david makes nick sleepwalk into the pond. nick pushes his mum down the stairs. which leads me to your last question. this is not a rustic idyll; this is a picturesque town behind the curtains lies countless stories of abuse and dysfunction (as nick tells dawn as they walk through the town). 

4. i think - and i am not the only one :-( - that david kills nick. they’re both so damaged from horrific abuse and they carry it differently. nick constantly flees into the army and then ends up with PTSD. whilst david (to me) is a volcano of psychoses waiting to blow. he’s tried to cover it up in so many different ways but it’s always just below the surface. and in the end, i think it’s edited so that you think - like dawn - that david has done something terrible.

i also have an equally bleak view of the future; david’s violence is never resolved. neither is nick’s disappearance. and i cannot see david happily being cuckolded indefinitely. and without some sort of emotional fracture…

depressing? yes. sophisticated? totally. watching this film reminds me of that moment in ferris bueller’s day off where they’re all staring at george seurat’s pointilliste painting (Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte) and cameron just stares at each point until the painting dissolves into uncertainty. wanky sorry, but to me wreckers is like a pointilliste film. it’s kinda indefinite. 

oh i did go on and one. long answer but - hey - it’s what i do.