the gulf between

anonymous asked:

um..i am unsure if this sounds rude but i feel like you have a bias towards lesbians, i checked your youtube channel, and compared to the number of m/m convos and f/f convos, and i feel like you gave up a bit.

“Biased towards lesbians” dude I am a lesbian. I do attempt to keep things slightly even but there is already such a gulf between the amount of M/M and F/F fandom content that I find it hard to feel bad in the slightest.


tveckling  asked:

Give me tycutio and “just tell me something, was it really worth it?”

“Just tell me something.”

Tybalt grunted, both to indicate that he’d heard and to communicate that he didn’t appreciate the blatant falseness of Mercutio’s airy, nonchalant tone. He hadn’t expected either of them to live, and times were he - and Mercutio as well, though the latter never showed it - wished that they hadn’t. Particularly when the greyscale hush that had befallen Verona grew too overwhelming. Mercutio’d insisted it was the only way, and yet…

“…Was it really worth it?” In stark contrast to the sound of his voice, Mercutio’s face was haggard, bereft of the fey cunning that was once his hallmark, and he rarely smiled anymore. The transformation made Tybalt question whether the love he felt was still for Mercutio, or for the memory of the man he had been. There was a gulf of difference between the two - one Tybalt wasn’t certain could be breached. Nevertheless, he had to pretend the distinction didn’t exist, for without Mercutio he would be alone.

“Does it matter? There was no other way. You said so yourself.” There was a seed of cruelty buried in his reply, but cruelty and truth often held hands. He searched Mercutio’s face for some change, some hint of feeling, but there was none: he just kept gazing out at the emptiness they had wrought. He said they, for although it had been Mercutio’s idea and his spellcasting that had done the deed, Tybalt was complicit in the act: his had been the hand which had spilled the blood Mercutio needed for the spellcraft to work.

Somewhere, a clock struck the hour, and just like every day, people moved quietly through their daily business, perfunctory as automatons and with about as much awareness. He and Mercutio alone were exempt from the spell’s workings, and for that, they bore the weight of the consequences. No one saw them, no one spoke to them: their existence had been erased entirely from the memories of Verona’s inhabitants, in exchange for something that passed for peace.

He caught a glimpse of Romeo in the street, and glanced sidelong at Mercutio, hoping that his eyes were somewhere else - but the telltale furrow of his brow and the purse of his lips told the truth. He knew that there was still (would always be) a part of Mercutio’s heart, worn-out though it was, that beat only for Romeo Montague. A person could love more than one, and Tybalt had accepted the fact long ago, but sometimes it ached just a little.

“Do you think they’re happier now?” The nonchalance was gone from Mercutio’s voice, replaced by a softness that was nearly wistful. “Do you think they even have a concept of it? Or did we just damn them to a life of unfeeling monotony for no reason?” His hands shifted in his lap, picking at the beds of his fingernails; Tybalt reached out to still them, knowing that he’d pick them bloody if left alone.

“There’s no changing it now. What’s done is done, and at least this way they won’t all murder one another. We saved them from themselves.” Mercutio nodded, but didn’t say anything. He curled his fingers lightly around Tybalt’s, a rare act of affection, and Tybalt responded in kind. It was something, at least. The terms of the spell bound them to Verona until every person under its thrall was dead, but so long as they had some scrap of a feeling left between them, Tybalt hoped that it would be bearable.

The McDonald’s french fry is unbelievable. When you bite into it, you think: It’s so tasty, it can’t be real. As soon as it gets cold, it turns to lard and flubble. I mean, have you ever tried to eat a McDonald’s french fry that’s gone cold? That’s one of the circles of hell. The gulf between the warm, fresh, lightly salted McDonald’s french fry and the cold McDonald’s french fry is as great a gulf as any I know. - Viggo Mortensen, Esquire magazine (x)

You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw - but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of - something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it - tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest - if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
—  C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain
why is the gulf between official art Red and the fandom’s perception of Red so wide??

I’ve been aware of this for years but never properly talked about it, but it just seems like the pokémon fandom has this collective idea about what red looks like despite the fact that he’s never once looked like that in any official art

official Red:

the very first. look at this dork. does he look cool to you?? I think not

but then:

what about this guy?? this brooding, pensive man with his red eyes and swoopy hair. surely it’s just one artist exercising their right to age up game protagonists and make them badass?

or is it? let’s do another comparison

manga red. it’s not canon canon exactly, but it still counts as an official incarnation. but this red is a go-get-em chap. he’s pumped. he’s smiling.

this guy is NOT smiling. he’s looking into your god damn soul. he is not a man to be trifled with. 

origins red. an awkward kid with short arms and a wide mouth. not your typical bamf

this guy looks like the sexy crossroads demon from an ancient episode of supernatural. he’s got eyes that stare into your soul. they’re so powerful that they can see through the giant wisps of hair hanging in his face. fear him

it says a lot that leaf green red probably looks closest to what we see in fan art. he’s not smiling. he’s got a somewhat badass pose going on. but his eyes and hair are brown and he’s not rocking the lank emo fringe that we’ve come to expect

again. the boy is caught in a permanent wind tunnel. he needs a haircut. someone help him.

sun and moon red. he’s older, he’s not smiling, so that ticks two boxes. but he hasn’t got a fringe, he hasn’t got red eyes, he hasn’t got black hair, and it’s too fluffy in any case. he is A Different Red.

he’s back again. who is he?? not official red, that’s for sure

but here’s the thing: I’m not surprised that people are adapting characters from the official art. people do that with all pokémon characters, in varying ways. what I find so bizarre is that the pokémon fandom has converged on a shared perception of what Red looks like, and a lot of his traits can’t be traced back to anything official. sure, the brooding look goes with his silent game personality and reputation as a powerhouse trainer, but very little official art shows him with red eyes - it’s only in the manga that he has them, and I don’t think that could account for such a strong trend. and whilst the black hair is understandable (nobody ever accepted brown haired Red, myself included) the style is not - he’s never had the flat emo hairdo except in fan art.

I have no answers for it. but I think about it a lot  


“The gulf between them closes like a wave receding from the shore.

Hanzo moves. Three steps take him into Jesse’s room. He slides the door shut, where it locks.”

Hang the Fool by @arcanebarrage 

I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you’re genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.

- Persona, Ingmar Bergman

It’s hard to believe that TAZ is essentially the first long-form narrative that Griffin has created, both because it’s really good and because that prospect is terrifying. Like, he seems like the kind of person who spends a lot of time thinking about how stories work and what makes an effective plot, but there’s such a huge gulf between understanding a satisfying narrative and actually creating one.

And so not only is this his first work of creative fiction, but because of the way the game works he hasn’t been able to hash out his ideas with anyone, he has to balance the overall plot with allowing the players to make their own choices, no matter how much planning he does the actual events are all improvisational, and then it gets released to the world on a bi-weekly basis. That sounds completely overwhelming, honestly, and I’m so impressed both that he has the guts to do this in the first place and at how well he’s managing it.

anonymous asked:

how does diedgrips tolerate the vast intellectual gulf between him and the other shameshack mods

the relationship between diedgrips and us is like a child watching ants outside

I loved the 1991 Beauty and the Beast, but I honestly don’t have much interest in seeing the live-action version. There’s a huge gulf between “Oh, a human stuck in the form of a teacup” in a drawing versus… whatever digital wizardry they used for this film, and I don’t know if I have the patience to put up with 60+ minutes of uncanny valley visuals.


Tumblr ate your ask about how I arrived at my National Socialist views. I always appreciate genuine asks so here’s my longwinded answer.

Had a fairly normal childhood, grew up as a base brat in the Canadian military, loved animals, nature, reading and everything related to WW2. First big thing that led to me becoming a National Socialist was going from a Lilly-white middle school to a half black highschool. I didn’t really have any hard political opinions before hand, just basically parroted whatever my family/TV said because it sounded good to me at the time. 

In very short order, I realized that there was a vast gulf of difference between the behaviour of blacks and whites in my school. I’m sure anyone with a similar school in their days can echo my experiences of daily fistfights over nothing, constant class disruptions, blaring unintelligible rap music all hours of the day, and a complete and utter apathy to basic school rules or schoolwork. 

The school also took an obviously biased stance in favour of their stupidity and shit behaviour in order to avoid being called racist. Time and time again I saw black students get slaps on the wrists for things that would have gotten a white student suspended or expelled.

From there I basically found my way onto 4chan’s /pol/ board, I had already browsed the site for gaming discussion/humour but the absolute hilarious racism of the place pulled me in. And if you start hanging around there you learn things, I never even gave a second thought about Jews before going on there. I learned of their hand in the creation and propagation of Marxism that so rotted my society, their infiltration and eventual control of media and world finance, quotes aplenty from them about their real attitude towards the goyim. 

And that was when I decided to give Adolf Hitler a good, solid and sober look. It struck a fire in me like nothing I had ever felt. Here was a man and a belief that not only stood against the things that disturbed my soul and I saw to be false, but also for the first time, showed me the beauty that National Socialism viewed the world with, and the deep, selfless, profound love that Adolf Hitler had for his people. It was a worldview that took the lifelong love and awe I had for nature and applied it’s iron laws to man in the most thorough and complete way in history. 

If you have any questions about National Socialism or me, feel free to ask. 

florida gothic
  • three sides of the state are bordered by water, water that seeps into the ground throughout. you will never run out of it, but remember you cannot dig down too far.
  • the groves seem to go on and on forever, and you try not to wonder why oranges have skin, have flesh as the juices run down your face. the taste is just too sweet.
  • st augustine, they say, is the oldest city in the country, but it is far from the only city here that is full of ghosts and covered in blood.
  • there is the east coast and the ocean and there is the west coast and the gulf and between them it is a three-hour drive. you think you can make it across the state and back in a day, racing the sunset, but the road just gets longer and the air just gets thicker and as you pass the hand-painted roadsign warning of STRAWBERRIES, TOMATOES, and GATOR JERKY for the ninth time you begin to wonder if this was a bad idea.
  • in the summertime, there is a thunderstorm every day at 3 o’clock sharp. the noise from the sky is so loud it rattles the walls of your home. soon the storm is gone, but it will be back again. it always is.
  • the wind from any direction carries a faint, sweet metallic scent that is surely the sea, and surely not blood. the air is humid, sticky and hot like breath, but just whose breath you cannot say.
  • you just can’t find your grandparents’ house in the subdivision, cookie-cutter house after house in neat rows on either side of your car in an endless, uncurving line. you have passed the same old man in khaki shorts, standing in his yard, watering his grass, at least four times. he waves without recognition as you pass by again.
  • every town has a hospital district, populated with tired graying people whose bodies are giving up. “this place is god’s waiting room,” the healthy ones joke, but there is fear in their eyes: this place is just hungry.
ME: Andromeda First Impressions
  • I legit don’t understand why the Mass Effect team seems so reluctant to improve their character models. The whole clay face thing isn’t a good look. Just stop it.
  • The gulf between default Scott Ryder and the presets is huge. 
  • My custom Sarah Ryder is perfect in every single way, but I went with the default Scott so she randomly has a white blued eyed twin. 
  • The overall story is pretty solid and touches on a lot of themes from the previous trilogy, but with some added insight of what worked and what didn’t.
  • The first couple of hours should feel pretty dire – literally everything goes wrong for the Andromeda Initiative – but somehow it still manages to feel upbeat about things. The overall tone of the game feels really close to the Citadel dlc. 
  • SAM within only a few hours proves to be more interesting that the whole damn Reaper plotline that spanned the entirety of three fucking games. 
  • Cora and Liam seem to be Ryder’s designated love interests or hetro best friends.
  • Cora has hints of them touching on the biotics prejudice that was introduced and dropped in the first game with Kaiden.
  • Liam doesn’t have any dark secret or cool background, but still seems like a cool dude you’d want to hang out with.  
  • There’s a messageboard in the crew quarters and from the first posts on it I’m 100% sure Liam is a memester.
  • Vetra is the ship’s designated shitposter. 
  • My Sarah geeked out about Prothean artifacts in her first conversation with Suvi, which instantly converted me to the SarahxSuvi ship.
  • Sarah needs to start dating Suvi so she can introduce her to hairbrushes and makeup tutorials.
  • The singleplayer combat is pretty great, but some of the exploration aspects of the game feel a lot like platforming with the jetpack jumps. 
  • Multiplayer nearly similar to ME:3, so it’s pretty boss. 
  • Multiplayer lag kills vanguards. :/