the ninety nine percent

anonymous asked:

I wish tumblr could do the whole "Separate the bad parts of someone's legacy or work from the good parts." Yes, Kinsey did creepy stuff, X poet or writer was homophobic, and unicorns are racist, that doesn't mean we should just totally ignore them.

you basically have to write off the ninety nine point something percent of all humans who ever lived that did not grow up with your very specific set of values

that seems limiting

anonymous asked:

I NEED a BLURB ABOUT HOLDING HARRY BC HE is sad about his performance and you comfort him pleaseeee

Here you go, have some fluff :)


Saturday Night

He was nervous.

He didn’t want me or anyone else to know he was, but I could tell. And who wouldn’t be? It was his first performance in over a year, and his first ever as a solo artist. I would have been nothing but a ball of nerves if it were me. He’d paced back and forth in the green room, spreading his fingers out as far as they would go, bringing them back into a fist over and over again, repeating the cycle each time he’d make it to the other end of the room and turn around on his heels.

I’d sat quietly on the sofa, nibbling on the display of fruit and crackers that sat in the middle of the coffee table. I was nervous too, but I said nothing unless it was to reply to a question, giving him the most space I possibly could. I’d asked him earlier if he would rather I took a seat in the audience, but he assured me he wanted me backstage, waiting for his return. Though he never expressed why exactly, I took it to mean he wanted me to be there for him, for him to see my face and perhaps share an embrace after he’d walked off stage, and I took comfort in that.

I’d watched his first performance on the monitor in the green room, sitting on the edge of my seat, my hands tucked underneath my thighs as I bit my bottom lip. By the end of the song, I’d felt my eyes well up, quickly wiping them away with the back of my hand before he saw. I could tell as soon as he walked in that he was less than pleased with himself. He’d missed a couple of notes, his voice raspier than usual from all the practicing, and once he’d even had to drop a word at the end of the phrase due to lack of air. I knew he had to be mentally scolding himself. But I’d thought it was flawless. He’d done it. He was Harry Styles, rockstar.

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Vodka Shots

Originally posted by garisanee

Wonho (Monsta X), for anon

Type: Smut, College!AU

Words: 1,777

Summary: There’s something about vodka and frat parties that bring out a side of your boyfriend you’ve never seen…

“Yo! Y/N, take another shot! You’re not drunk enough yet!” Minhyuk yelled over the blaring party music, slinging his arm around your neck. He was sloppy drunk at this point, his whole body and the air surrounding him reeking incredibly of vodka. He leaned against your frame a little too much, sloshing a bit of his beer over the sides of his solo cup as he did so.

You were in a huddle mass of over incredibly drunk people, most of which were fraternity boys. Dating a fraternity boy yourself, you seemingly found yourself in this situation more often than not: the stench of alcohol coating the hair, sweaty bodies of Greek kids milling about and constantly brushing against you. The Pi Kappa Alpha, PIKE for short, house was really quite spacious, more so than most of the other fraternity houses you’d been to, but that space just left room for more party-goers.

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anonymous asked:

winteriron neighbours au bucky is 28 or 29 and tony is 24 or 25, where bucky and tony live next to each other and tony is scared of him. bucky is always grumpy, angry, glaring at everyone. tony thinks bucky is a serial killer. one day he just blurts it out and bucky is very offended. that's how they start talking. later when they start dating steve still can't get over the fact that tony had thought that bucky was an assassin. he still laughs at them because of that. happy ending.

Resting Bitch Face/Bucky will always be one of my top pairings lmao. (Man I had plans for this and then I threw in angst lol I’m a failure.) Look out for under the cut!

You can also find this on Ao3 here.


Tony was pretty sure his neighbor was a serial killer.

Like, he’d done the proper thing his mother had said to do, introduce himself to his new neighbors (he had a standing offer to have coffee with Bruce anytime), but when he’d knocked on the door of 4D, a man had answered looking ready to commit murder. There had been bags under his eyes and his eyes were red and his hair was a mess. He’d grunted out a terse ‘the fuck do you want’ and Tony had been able to do nothing but squeak. And then the door had been slammed shut in his face.

Which, you know, might have been a little rude; no one looked good first thing in the morning and Tony had clearly blind-sided him. But the guy hadn’t had to slam the door in his face. He had planned on just nicknaming him ‘Rudy McTrudy’ and moving on with his life.

Except sometimes Rudy McTrudy came home late at night clutching his left hand with a towel that was stained with blood.

Tony nicknamed him ‘Murder Guy’ instead.

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anonymous asked:

Sterek Prompt Number 47 Please!

AHHH I LOVE THIS!!!! Here is #47: “I thought it was a one-night stand…but now we’re married…”


Stiles woke up with a headache and a small groan, eyes adjusting to the sunlight coming from the wall of windows he was facing. It was weird…his and Scotty’s motel room didn’t have a wall of windows let alone a killer view of the Vegas strip.

Oh God this wasn’t the motel.

Stiles suddenly was hyper aware of the body pressed against his back and the arm hooked around his bare chest. He swallowed so hard it hurt as he glanced down to see the sheet barely covering their undoubtedly bare lower halves. Then his eyes caught sight of the body behind him and holy shit he was ninety nine point two percent sure he was sleeping with a GQ model.

He turned his head back to the windows trying to think of a way out of this, except then there was movement and stubble ran across the nape of his neck and there was a hard cock pressed against his ass–

With that he slithered ungracefully out of the man’s grip until he rolled off the bed and took half the sheets with him. There was a groan from the bed when he fell to the floor with a thud, and somehow he managed to hit his funny bone.

“Ow, fuck,” Stiles whined, sitting up to see the GQ model awake and naked in all his very sexy glory. Man for a one night stand he really got lucky, but terribly so he can’t remember a fucking thing.

No more alcohol. Ever.

“Um, hi,” the guy said, face pinched up.

Stiles felt like drooling because man those eyebrows could murder someone, but those green-blue eyes were to die for. Jesus those cheekbones couldn’t be real either, they looked so sharp and angular. This guy is photoshopped for sure.

“Well I’m pretty sad I can’t remember what I would assume to be awesome sex, but this was nice, gotta go,” Stiles blurted out and stood up, wrapping the sheet around his lower half just now noticing the marks all across his torso.

Oh the sex must’ve been amazing.

“Hey–”

“No seriously man I gotta go, my best friend is probably worried sick,” Stiles pressed, grabbing his boxers.

“Wait–”

“Look dude I don’t know–”

“We have rings on our fingers!” The model blurted out and Stiles paused looking at his hands only to see his ring finger with a gold band on it. His vision spiraled a bit as he stood up on shaky legs. He twisted the band on his finger, slipping it off to look at the rather expensive piece of jewelry. On the inside of the band he read a tiny engraving “drunk married is the best married”.

Holy hell.

“I thought it was a one-night stand…but now we’re married…,” he trailed off looking to the other man, stark naked and honestly still looking hotter than the sun. From his toned body to his bunny like teeth that poked from his slightly parted lips.

“I’m Derek,” the guy -Derek- said suddenly.

“Stiles–and yes, it’s a nickname,” he answered, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, still wrapped in the sheet. The silence lingered, sitting between them and festering until Derek pulled off his own ring and looked inside it.

“It’s says “his name his Mieczyslaw”…I think I remember you told me last night when we bought the rings,” Derek said and Stiles paled with a low groan, shoving his face in his hands. He doesn’t know where Scott is, he’s slept with the world’s hottest man alive, and he’s married to said man who knows his atrocity of a first name.

Great. Fucking great.

“I don’t think this is how a honeymoon is supposed to go.”

“Seriously, Stiles?”

“What? I heard they were much better than this– I mean most people know their husbands.”

Derek was quiet for a long time after that before finally saying, “…my favorite color is green.”

Stiles couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.

So two years later at their real wedding the color theme was white and green, both of them wearing the same rings that started this beautiful perfect mess.


ASK ME A PROMPT FOR THE DRABBLE CHALLENGE!

Manhattan.

Authors Note: Au where Harry is a Frat Boy. I don’t know where this is going. It was hard to write though.

Harry Masterlist found HERE
Other Chapters found HERE


I was never the character to continuously go to parties, get drunk, or even go out every Friday night.

I regularly prefer to stay in on Friday nights, revising for the tests or doing the homework that I’m drowning in.

I perpetually overhear the stories that go around every Monday morning, after some sort of party that sparked everyone’s interests.

I continually hear the late night giggles and drunken stumbles in the hallways’ of my dorm. Every Saturday morning, around two, I hear the laughs of tipsy and intoxicated classmates’ that never seizes to disturbs me from my sleep or my studying.

I overhear the front door to the suit open, an indication one of my three suit mates are subsequently back from class, or shagging up with their boyfriends’ or their boyfriends’ friends.

To say the least, my suitemates are of some character, character that is different to my own. I always listen in on some of the scandalous stories that go on within the suit— they can be great friends’, but they don’t always make the best of decisions.

I narrow my eyes back to the book in my hand that is required to be read for English class, despite its terrible storyline and the fact it is borderline monotonous. For a moment, I am distracted when my suitemate enters the bedroom, a smile painted across her face. “What are you doing tonight?” She beams over to me, directing my attention away from the torturous book in my hand.

“I have a date with Bio, why?” I glance over at her, noticing how she is already rummaging through her clothes, perhaps trying to find something to wear for the evening.

“Come out with me, there is a party.”

“I need to do Bio, I’ll pass.” I shake my head, just as she flings a glittery black dress into my lap. I lift it off my lap and drop it to the bed.

“Bio will be there in the morning, get up. you need to have some fun.”

“I need good grades, actually.” I correct her, her posture straightening as she turns to glance at me.

“Get your ass up, put on a dress and heels, do something with your hair, and put the damn book down.” She narrows her eyes on the book still in my hand, “One night, that is it. I promise you won’t regret it.” She presses, determined to not allow me to pass on the opportunity to go out with her and probably get drunk and have guys hit on the two of us.

With a heavy sigh, I push myself off the bed, my fingers clasping the glittery dress, “Fine, but I want your psych notes, and I want those heels.” I gesture towards a pair of crimson red heels. She raises a brow, seeming surprised by my choice of colour.

“I said get dressed, not to look hot. I am surprised.” She gasps teasingly, my eyes rolling at her,

“I do know how to dress, surprisingly. Now, hand over the psych notes.” I smile, already beginning to undress and pull the dress over my body, adjusting it to fall perfectly.

“Damn, you brush up nicely without a book in your hand.” She chuckles, handing me her heels that I have requested for the night. I grin, giving her a shrug as I run my hands through my hair, debating whether I need to do anything to it.

I mutter under my breath my regret as I step into the rowdy house, parties are not really my thing—neither are Frat parties. I sigh, allowing my roommate to drag me into the house of swaying bodies and raucous noise, music echoing against the walls, laughter and chatter boisterously buzzing.

It takes me a while to settle into the atmosphere of overly enthusiastic and somewhat intoxicated figures, my hand already clasping a red solo cup with some sort of fruity drink poured into it. I hurried away from the vodka shots and settled on whatever it is that was poured into my cup. I assume it is a mix of fruits and vodka, but there is really no telling, the bartender seemed half intoxicated himself.

I glance over as a loud eruption of laughter takes my attention, a group of boys’ gathered around a pingpong table, shouting at each other, pushing and shoving as two of them go head to head in the battle of beer pong. I can’t help but chuckle at the pathetic attempt of the blonde in a pair of light dawn-tinted shorts and a white polo hung around his figure. There is no doubt in my mind that he is already at his limits end with alcohol, and his friends’ are just savouring his embarrassment with beer pong.

I wander closer to the table, considerately amused by the whole group; they appear to be having a lot more fun than the sweaty, dancing bodies in the other room, and they’re the only group of boys that aren’t trying to mount their dick onto anything that breathes and resembles the slightest bit of a female.

“Ah, we have a new spectator.” A guy gestures towards me, forcing all the attention to be focused on me, I shrug and take a sip of my beverage, “Guess you didn’t see the sign?” He comments,

“Which one?” I raise a brow, unsure of what he is referring to.

His mates grow quiet and his mouth begins to move, “This is not a game for chicks.” His sexist comment automatically causes me to roll my eyes.

Entitled, sexist fratboy— clearly a non-intelligent twat.

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  • Dick Grayson: Hundred percent honesty is the foundation of any relationship.
  • Tim Drake: Woh! You are a hundred percent honest with Barbara?
  • Dick Grayson: Yes!
  • Tim Drake: About everything?
  • Dick Grayson: Yep!
  • Tim Drake: New Orleans, 2006, what was her name? Uh... Fabia? Yeah, she did look like a woman to be fair.
  • Dick Grayson: Ninety-nine percent honesty is the foundation of any relationship.
Late Nights (Chris Beck X Reader College! AU)

Okay, so here is that requested Chris Beck oneshot! you know who you are, so, I hope you enjoy!

Originally posted by thesafesthands

You sighed, brushing a lock of hair out of your face, and huffing in annoyance.  Your Linguistics professor had given you an ungodly amount of homework a couple of days ago, and you opted to procrastinate by watching The Breakfast Club, and promptly falling asleep afterwards. Now, all of the homework was due tomorrow, and there was no possible way you were going to get it all done. 

Luckily enough for you, Linguistics was one of your best classes, so you should be able to breeze through the first bit.  You made your way into the university’s library, seeing the sun begin to set out of the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows. This only made you internally panic more, as it showed just how little time you actually had to accomplish your task. You found an empty table, in the secluded, back part of the library, and spread out all of your papers and textbooks. Then, you opened your laptop, preparing for a night of torturous work. 

-one hour later- 

An hour had passed, with you yielding little progress. Why on Earth did your professor think you could learn so much about the roots of the Russian Language in just two nights? Especially when he definitely had the knowledge that two thirds of his class procrastinated everything, you included. You were just about to scream out of frustration, when you heard someone plop down in the chair across from you. You looked up, to see none other than Chris Beck sitting across from you. You and Chris had become friends at the beginning of Freshman year,a couple of months ago. You’ve been practically inseparable ever since.  

“Rough night?” He asked, a cheeky grin forming on his face, causing you to roll your eyes.  

“Ya think? My Linguistics professor is trying to kill me, is what I think,” you muttered, earning a chuckle from the man across from you, which made your cheeks heat up slightly. One thing you try to suppress, is your ever-growing crush on Beck.  

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not. I’m also ninety-nine percent sure you procrastinated this work at least one night,” Chris replied, amusement dancing in his eyes.  

“You may possibly be right, but still, who cares about the roots of the Russian language? No one, that’s who!” You screeched exasperatedly.  

“Hey, you’re the one who signed up for a Linguistics class. Which, I don’t understand. I do understand why you signed up for that Astrophysics course, though,” Chris rambled. The boy was crazy about everything space, same as you. Though, you needed just a couple more credits for the year, resulting in you taking this stupid Linguistics class.  

“Are you here to help, or just to be annoying?” You questioned, arching a brow in his direction.  

“I suppose I’m here to help,” he stated, moving to sit next to you. You two spent the better part of the next four hours completing your assignment. By the time you were done, it was nearly eleven, and you were practically falling asleep at the table.  

“Wow, we finished,”you noted, an impressed yawn escaping your mouth, making Chris chuckle.  

“A little tired, there?” He asked, making you roll your eyes. Though, you rolled your eyes a little two hard, and just settled on closing them, just about ready to spend the rest of the night right there, at the library table.  

“Oh, no you don’t (y/n/n),” Chris sighed, as your head hit the table, and you were seemingly asleep. He picked you up bridal style, walking away from the table.  

“Chris…my stuff,” you muttered, in your semi-asleep state.  

“Don’t worry, you packed it all in your backpack, remember? I have it,” he whispered, a hint of amusement in his voice. You nodded slightly, snuggling into his chest, and falling asleep. A couple of minutes later, Chris had made it to your dorm, and was struggling to open the door with you in his arms. Finally, he succeeded, and walked straight to your bed, putting you down gently, and covering you with the blankets. He was just about to leave, when you started mumbling.  

“No… stay Chris, I’m cold,” you muttered, making grabby hands at the boy. He chuckled quietly, look at you. Your bun was messy, loose hair sprawling over the pillow. You had on a grey NASA sweatshirt, given to you by your father, who had worked at Nasa, and a pair of neon green shorts. It certainly was a look.  

“Okay, I’ll stay,” Chris responded, awkwardly sitting on the edge of your bed. You sighed, shaking your head.  

“No, come here,” you muttered, grabbing his shirt and pulling him forward, until he was laying next to you. He put an arm around you, thinking about how it was the most natural feeling in the world. And, the two of you fell asleep like that; two exhausted college students who may or may not have awkward schoolkid crushes on each other, snuggled soundly together.

CAN YOU THROW SOME LIGHT ON THE FEELING OF NOSTALGIA?

The whole of humanity suffers from nostalgia. Yes, I call it a suffering - it is a disease. It happens only because we are not able to live in the present totally, passionately, intensely. Then the mind starts making substitutes for the present, and then there are two possibilities: either you move towards the past or you move towards the future. Neither the past exists nor the future: the past is no more, the future not yet. All that exists is this moment, only this moment. Now is the only real time and here the only real space.

But whenever you become obsessed with the past or the future it simply shows one thing: an escape from the present, an escape from the existential And why should one want to escape from the existential? Why should one want to escape into memories or into fantasies? There can be only one reason: you don’t know how to live now, you don’t know the art of getting in tune with reality.

Because your present is so empty, so meaningless, you have to compensate for it with something.

The easier way is to compensate for it with the past because the past once existed; it has left its footprints in the sands of your memory, so it is easier to fall back. The past seems more substantial than the future, hence ninety-nine percent of people fall towards the past. Only one percent - the poets, the visionaries, the artists - look towards the future, they compensate for their present with the future. But basically both are doing the same; more or less everybody is doing it in his own way.

Nostalgia means non-meditativeness, unawareness, unconsciousness, and it is an utterly futile exercise, an absolutely futile exercise. You cannot be nourished by the past, there is no way to live it again, but you can live in memories. Living in memories is an empty gesture.

So the first thing, Ronald, is to remember that it is not only you who is suffering from nostalgia, everybody is although there may be relative differences.

And the people who live in the future are also projecting their past, because where else can they get the material to make future dreams? They will get it from the memories. They will modify their past, decorate their past, make new combinations of the past and create a future - a future heaven. And this is true about individuals and about societies too.

The old societies, for example, India, live in the past. India’s golden age has passed. In the future there is only darkness and nothing else; the future holds no hope. So India falls back towards the past.

It happens to every individual in his old age - it is an indication of old age - because the old man cannot look ahead, there is nothing there but death. If he looks into the future he can hear the footsteps of death coming closer and closer and closer. It is frightening. He closes that door completely, he looks back. It is more beautiful - all those memories of youth and childhood…

The child lives in the future because he has no past. He is always hoping to grow up as soon as possible, as quickly as possible. The same is true about young societies, for example, America: its whole history is only three hundred years old. India has existed for at least ten thousand years; more is possible but not less. Ten thousand years certainly create a deep hankering for the past - the society is so old, so collapsing.

But America can hope for the future - it is so young; it has no past. If the American tries to go to the past, where can he go? Abraham Lincoln, Washington… and then comes the end. There is not much in it - three hundred years is nothing. India can go on and on as far back as one can conceive.

So it is true about individuals, it is true about societies, races, collectivities - that if you are very young you look towards the future, if you are getting old you start looking towards the past.

So one thing, Ronald: you must be getting old, if not physically then psychologically. But deep down you know that the peak of life has passed and the future looks dark and dismal. But I don’t differentiate much between future and the past because both are escapes.

The king had very small reproductive machinery. One day, while bathing with other nobles, a friend remarked, “My dear King, you have a really small thing there!”

And the king replied, “Yes. If it was another inch smaller I"d be a queen!”

Relatively speaking… This is the whole theory of Albert Einstein, The Theory of Relativity.

So, Ronald, you may be too obsessed by nostalgia and others may be a little less obsessed, or more, but it is only a question of quantity.

Only an enlightened person has no nostalgia because he need not escape from the present. The awakened person lives herenow, he knows no other life.

The first thing about nostalgia: it can be understood only if you understand the nature of the mind.

The mind functions like the pendulum of an old dock: it moves from one extreme to another, it never stays in the middle. If the pendulum stays in the middle, the dock stops. That’s exactly true about the mind: if it remains in the middle, the mind stops, and that is the beginning of meditation. To be in the present is the beginning of an immense journey into eternity.

Eternity is vertical, time is horizontal. In time you move from A to B, from B to C, from C to D; it is linear, a line, a horizontal line. The moment you stop in the middle, you don’t move from A to B, your whole dimension changes - it becomes vertical. You dive deep into A: from Al to A2, from A2 to A3, from A3 to A4, and you go on diving deeper and deeper into A - not to B, not to C. The horizontal is no longer there; it is vertical. And the heights of life and the depths of life belong to the vertical dimension. The horizontal means the shallow, the superficial.

The mind is equivalent to time, hence it is not only a metaphor when I use the clock and the pendulum as symbols for the mind, it is literally true. The moment you are out of the mind - that is, you are moving in the vertical dimension - you are also out of time.

A Sufi saying attributed to Jesus is that when a disciple asked Jesus, “What will be very special in your kingdom of God?” he said, “There shall be time no longer.” The disciple may not have ever thought that this was going to be the answer: “There shall be time no longer.” It is not reported in the New Testament - the New Testament has missed many important things about Jesus - but other secret traditions have carried those messages. “There shall be time no longer.” He defines his kingdom of God by that statement - that will be the most special thing about it - no time, timelessness.

The mind is time; the moment there is no mind there is no time. And when there is no time there is no past, no future. Remember, time consists only of past and future: nostalgia for the past and dreams of the future. The present is not part of the time at all.

So when you hold the pendulum of the clock in the middle, the clock stops; when you hold your attention, your awareness, exactly in the middle, in the present, mind disappears, time disappears.

If you don’t know the art of meditation then the pendulum goes on moving from one extreme to another: from the past to the future, from the future back to the past. That’s how it keeps itself going, that’s how it keeps its momentum.

A beggar knocks at the gate of a Bavarian convent and asks the sister on duty, “Please, do you have any old robes for me?”

A bit ruffled, the sister replies, “But this is a nunnery! We don’t have any men in this house and no men’s clothing, of course! ”

The beggar apologizes and leaves.

The Mother Superior, who has overheard the conversation, says, “You shouldn’t have told him that we are without any male protection. Now that he knows he might come one night and molest us.” After a brief moment of thought, the sister on duty opens her little window and shouts after the beggar, “Hey, you, listen! At night the house is full of men!” That’s the way of the mind - from one extreme to another; it never stops in the middle. It is extremist, either rightist or leftist; it knows nothing of the golden mean.

You ask me, Ronald: FREUD CALLED IT REGRESSIVE AND A SEEKING OF THE WOMB. THIS DOES NOT SATISFY ME.

You have not understood poor Sigmund Freud; he is one of the most misunderstood men of this century. He had many insights of tremendous value and they gain more value because of the fact that he was not an awakened man. He was a blind man groping for the door and many times he came very close to the door. But obviously, not being enlightened himself, whatsoever he says about the door, his experience of being close to it, does not have that clarity which only a Buddha or a Lao Tzu or a Jesus can have. He uses words which can be very easily misunderstood. His words are ordinary, his insights very extraordinary. It is almost a miracle that a man who knows nothing of meditation, who knows nothing of his own consciousness, has many times come so close to the truth. One step more and he may have stepped out of darkness, out of blindness.

For example, Sigmund Freud calls it regressive. It is true, but the word “regressive” hurts. Nostalgia is regressive. Of course, it does not satisfy because it does not give you any nourishment for the ego. Regressive? And you always thought it was some great poetic quality, that you had a great understanding of the past, that your memory was magical, that you could recreate the past, you could relive it as if it were there again. You may have thought of it as something of very great creative value - and Sigmund Freud comes and he calls it “regressive”. It is certainly regressive.

You think of yesterdays only because you are not grown-up yet; you are still living somewhere farther back. The average psychological age of human beings is twelve years. And that is the average, Ronald - one may be ten, eight, seven, six, five, because there are people who are sixteen, twenty, twenty-five… So don’t take the average for granted.

Just look into your nostalgia, where you are lingering in past. There must be a few special spots, a few special memories which come again and again. That’s an indication that something has remained there, something has not grown since then. A part of you is still six years of age if that is the time which gives you sad and sweet memories. If you remember some other time then another part is still clinging there. Man is spread out almost all over the way.

There is a story in India:

Shiva’s wife died and he loved the woman so much, so madly, that he in his madness thought that there must be a physician somewhere in the country who could still bring her back to life. So he carried the dead body of his wife Parvati on his shoulders and roamed around the country looking for some miracle worker, some physician who knew the secret of the nectar which could revive the woman.

Of course, the body started deteriorating: it became rotten, parts of the body started falling. But he was so mad he went on and on. The hands fell in one place, the legs fell in another, the head fell somewhere else… That’s how the Indian sacred places were born - this is the story. One part fell in Varanasi, another fell in Puri, another fell in Ujjain, and so on and so forth. The body fell in twelve parts all over the country. By the time his tour was over nothing was left; the woman had disappeared. But wherever one part of the woman fell a sacred spot arose; it became a teertha, a place for pilgrimage.

This is somehow very significant for each of you. A part of you fell when you were four years of age and that part has remained there, another part fell somewhere else… you are spread out all over the way. You are not one piece, you are a multiplicity - multi-psychic many minds. And one part of may be very grown-up and another may be very childish.

A scientist may be a very grown-up man as far as his science is concerned. When he goes into his lab he is a very skilful, intelligent person, he works with great acumen, talent, genius, but another part of his life may be very childish, almost stupid. When he is out of his lab he is a totally different person.

It is said about Karl Marx that one day he brought many boxes of cigarettes to his home. The wife was a little puzzled. Women are more together than men; they are more earth-bound, more earthly and live more closely to the present.

The wife asked, “What made you bring so many cigarettes? And we are out of money!” He said, “Don’t be worried at all! I have found a secret way of earning money, that’s why I have purchased so many cigarettes. I will tell you the secret. Just along the way while coming back home I thought about an economic law: that if you smoke twelve cigarettes per day and you can find cheaper cigarettes, then with each cigarette you will be saving money, so the more you smoke the more money is saved! So now there is no need to worry about money. I will simply smoke and money will be saved! And I have found the cheapest brand. So much money will be saved that now you need not worry!”

The woman thought he had gone mad! He closed his doors and started smoking, two cigarettes at a time, because he was in such a hurry to earn money! And the woman rushed to one of his friends, Friedrich Engels, and told him the whole thing: “He has gone mad! He is continuously smoking, and two cigarettes at a time, because he thinks that the quicker the better!”

Engels came and tried to convince him, but he argued. It was very difficult to bring him down to earth.

And this happens to many people: in one part they may be grown-up, in another part very childish.

Nostalgia is regressive. You may not like the word, but the truth is there. Sigmund Freud is very dose to the right point. And he is also right about the womb; again he is using a word which seems offensive. Who wants the womb? Who wants to go back into the womb? The very idea is sickening!

What can you get in the womb of a mother? Just the very idea will make you vomit!

Just the other day Ajit Saraswati sterilized my tailor, Veena, and my librarian Gayan went to see the operation. Before Ajit started the operation, Gayan fainted. The very idea of looking into the womb was enough! And if this is so about a woman, what about a man?

Just think: looking back into the womb - if there were a window and you could look inside - would you like to go there? You will escape as far away as possible from any womb because a few wombs are very dangerous - they can suck you in!

I have heard:

A woman was lying on the street dead and naked. A rabbi was passing by. Seeing the naked woman he removed his hat and covered her, particularly her private parts.

Then a drunkard came by. He looked at the naked woman and, being completely drunk, he thought there was a man there also. So he asked the rabbi, “What are you going to do?”

The rabbi said, “I am going to contact the hospital people.”

But the drunkard said, “First we should take this guy out. Just his hat is showing, the rest of the guy has gone. By the time you bring the hospital people the guy may have disappeared! First let us take this guy out and then you can go anywhere you want. I am concerned about this poor man.”

Who wants to go into the womb? So it offended you, Ronald, but what he means really is that those nine months in the mother’s womb - of course you are not conscious of them anymore, you were not conscious of them even when you were in the womb - were the most pleasant time. Unless you can find a more blissful space the desire to go back into the womb remains; it is an unconscious longing.

Those nine months were of tremendous silence, rest, warmth There was no worry, no problem. You were fed, you were taken care of, and everything was absolutely automatic. You were surrounded by warm water and the womb was keeping you in a very cosy space, protected, safe, secure. Those nine months are still there in your unconscious, hence there is a desire to go back to the womb. That is part of nostalgia; in fact, that is part of what you call love.

The man trying to penetrate the woman is nothing but a search for the womb - very much changed but deep down still the same search. Every man is looking for the mother and unless your woman fulfils the role of your mother you will not be happy with her.

Now you are asking something impossible, hence so much unhappiness in the world. You are asking your woman to be your mother and yet be your woman - young, very alive, beautiful and yet at the same time motherly. Now, she cannot do both things. If she has to be very beautiful according to your criterion of beauty, if she has to be very young, then she cannot be your mother. If she tries to be your mother then she will no longer be beautiful; then she will not be a Sophia Loren. Then she will be like my Sushila - she is a perfect mother! You can find the mother, but if you are asking for Sophia Loren in Sushila then there is going to be trouble! What can she do? She cannot do both things. And Sophia Loren will look good in the films, but she cannot be a mother to you. She cannot give you that warmth - she does not have that much fat. How to give you warmth? She is bony!

Don’t ask a woman to be both a model and a mother. But that’s what everybody is asking. And every woman is asking the same from the man: to be a dad and to be a lover. No man can fulfill both roles together; it is almost impossible. Hence you will be frustrated this way or that; frustration is bound to be there.

The search is for the womb. You may not like the word “womb”, but that’s your misunderstanding.

Nothing is wrong with Freud using the word, but you have misunderstood it.

Punya has sent me a joke. She says, “This is a real joke. I heard it on the main street of the ashram between the boutique and the bag check.”

One sannyasin said to another sannyasin, “What I can’t stand about this ashram is: wherever you look, there are queues.”

The other said, “What? Jews?”

This is your misunderstanding, Ronald.

Mr. Gold had been married for many years when he had to go to Paris for a business trip.

In that city of love, he easily fell victim to the amorous advances of the pretty mademoiselle. But somehow Mrs. Gold found out about it. She wired her husband at his hotel, “Come home! Why spend money there for what you can get here for free?”

The next day she received a cable in reply: “I know you and your bargains!”

Just a misunderstanding on your part…

An English vicar checked into a large hotel. As he was walking up the main stairway he met a tiny old lady half-way up, panting for breath and carrying an enormous suitcase.

He eagerly took the case from the speechless old lady and carried it to the top of the stairs.

When he returned to help her up, she kicked him viciously in the shins. “It took me ten minutes to carry my case that far down!” she shouted.

Ella: “I’m homesick!”

Bella: “But this is your home.”

Ella: “I know, and I’m sick of it!”

The newly-arrived ambassador to a Far Eastern country called on the Emperor to present his credentials. Although he was disturbed by the presence of so many comely, half-nude maidens in the palace, he was determined not to show it. Trying to restrict the conversation to affairs of state, he asked, “Your Highness, when was the last time you had an election?”

“Ah,” said the Emperor, with a smile and a sly wink, “Just befo” blekfast!“

Ronald, the problem is not with poor Sigmund Freud, the problem is with you! What can he do if it does not satisfy you? It is not a question of satisfying you - the truth is truth.

You say: SOMETIMES THE PERFUME OF A FLOWER, SOUNDS, A PLACE OR AN INCIDENT FROM CHILDHOOD, CAN EVOKE A FEW SECONDS OF FEELING AND YEARNING THAT ARE SO SAD AND SO SWEET, IT CAN CHOKE ME WITH ITS INTENSITY.

It is possible only if this moment is not intense enough to grip you totally, only if something is left out of this moment if you are holding back.

For twenty-five years I have never thought of my past, of my childhood - no nostalgia. And I have never thought about the future either. This moment is so much - in fact, too much - so overwhelming, who bothers about past and future?

You say: MY CHILDHOOD WAS NOT SO HAPPY, NOR IS THE WOMB SO APPEALING THAT MERE SENTIMENTALITY FOR "THE OLD DAYS” CAN EXPLAIN IT.

Nobody’s childhood can be happy, it cannot be happy for the simple reason that the child is so dependent, so helpless. He is continuously being manipulated by the parents, by the teachers, he is continuously repressed by everybody, ordered, commanded. No child can be ever happy, but everybody, later on, thinks that the childhood was the most beautiful thing that happened to him.

The reason is again relative: the childhood was miserable, but now you are in far more misery! Now the childhood looks beautiful: seeing all the worries of life and the responsibilities and the troubles and the anxieties, it looks beautiful. But that is the only relative - the older you become, the more beautiful it will look.

That’s why it is both sad and sweet. The sadness is its truth and the sweetness is your invention.

And when the childhood was not happy - you say it was not happy - that simply shows you must be living a really miserable life today. If even an unhappy childhood attracts you, that shows only one thing and shows it definitely: that today is just dark, meaningless, hence the past pulls you backwards.

I can say only one thing to you: learn the art of meditation - meditation simply means the art of being herenow totally, absolutely - and then all this nonsense about nostalgia will disappear. Otherwise, it is going to remain with you to the very end.

From the cradle to the grave people go on living somewhere where they cannot live and go on escaping from the only place where it is possible to live.

Wrong One (Jamilton + Laf)

AN: yet another late fic of questionable value

Tag Crew: @huffleheyguys @artisticgamer @hamilton4starwars @iamnotthrowingawaymyshit @hmltntrsh51 @megabooklover18 @theoverlordofeverything

Warnings: none? 

Word Count: 1,639

Part One - Part TwoMasterlist

Gilbert came back from his run to find Thomas hunched over a mug of coffee at the kitchen counter. That was an unusual sight on the weekend. 

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Theoretically

Pairing: Barry Allen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: the word ‘theoretically’ has been repeated so many times

Word Count: 1, 252

Summary: The reader is a theoretical physicist and a close friend of Cisco’s who’s been working with team Flash for a bit. Barry asks her for advice on how to ask his crush out.

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A/N: My first time writing for Barry Allen (CW Flash)! I lost count of how many times I used the word ‘theoretically’. Hope you lovelies enjoy it!


Originally posted by trufflemores


You had just gotten your Master’s degree when you decided to visit one of your best friends from college a few months ago. You and Cisco kept in touch of course and you knew about his work at S.T.A.R. Labs, in fact you had helped him with a lot of the physics involved in helping the Flash. That’s why your little visit turned into a permanent stay as you continued to help team Flash while working on your PhD in Central City.

Over the course of the last few months, you’ve become pretty close with the team; particularly a certain fellow nerd who speeds around in a red suit when he’s saving the city. You’d stay late a lot of the time to get some of your work done and Barry Allen being the gentleman he is, would stay behind to keep you company or when he still had CSI work to do, he’d invite you to work beside him in his lab at the precinct. He’s come to have quite the crush on you, between the take-out you share during late-night work sessions to the inside jokes you’ve come to have that even Cisco didn’t understand. He found himself noticing every little thing about you and loving every quirk you have.

Pretty much the whole team had caught onto his crush. Cisco had been telling him to take you out on a date, and assuring him that you like him too. Although you had never explicitly said anything, Cisco always seems to know.

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Imagine Chris turning the tables on you.

A/N: I’m not very good at pranks, I think that will be very obvious when you read this. This is a request from @castellandiangelo, I did end up writing your request. (I’m sorry if it’s bad, I’m not good at pranks!) I’ll make up for this sleep deprived piece, there’s an idea that’s been brewing for a while now. X

1st of April had finally arrived; it was the day you’d been waiting for since you came up with what you thought was the best, and most cruel prank ever. The prank was designed for your husband, Chris, and you’d joined forces with his mom and his brother to pull it off; they’d flown in from Boston just to help you. You still hadn’t decided if it was one of those ‘we-can-laugh-about-it-in-the-future’ pranks or a 'I’m-going-to-fucking-divorce-your-ass’ pranks, but seeing as Lisa and Scott were on board- you saw it as the former. You’d been with Chris for years and years now, so you knew him well. You knew he had a great sense of humor and a great love for your playful side, which made you ninety-nine percent sure he’d appreciate your prank; the sweet note at the end especially. But just to be safe and not to seem too smug, you lowered the probability percentage down to ninety-five.

The prank you’d been planning for over a month now involved Scott 'crashing’ Chris’ brand new Audi while taking you to lunch; Lisa calling from the emergency room; and Chris rushing down only to find you safe and sound with a dozen pink balloons and a sonogram. You’d found out you were pregnant a little while ago and wanted to find the right time to tell your husband, so why not April Fools? It was crazy and a little bit over the top, but then again- that was you. To be fair though, Chris had pulled some pretty horrendous pranks over the years. You could say you were only doing it as a way to get back at him for the time he visited you on your set and put a cockroach on you while you were filming a scene with Meryl Streep- an actress you so thoroughly admired- but hey, you weren’t the vindictive type.

“Do you think your son will divorce me after he finds out this is all just a prank?”

“No,” Lisa chuckled with a shake of her head. “He loves you way too much, and he’s going to be so happy about the baby news that- he’s not going to care about anything else.” You nodded in agreement after slight hesitation. “It’s April Fools and he’s a big boy, he can handle it.”

“I hope so,” you chuckled as you gathered the bundle of pink helium balloons. Lisa chuckled too as she grabbed her purse and headed towards your front door where loud knocking could be heard. “Could you get that, please? I bet it’s Scott, I hope he knows he’s not actually going to drive Chris’-”

“It’s not Scott,” Lisa cut you off as you walked around the corner; your eyes narrowed at the two police officers standing in your doorway with solemn expressions on their faces. “How can I help you gentlemen?” Lisa asked them. “Is there a particular person you’re looking for?”

“We’re here to speak with Y/N Y/L/N,” the taller male answered and you didn’t know to snicker or be genuinely concerned. For all you knew, they were part of Chris’ plan to prank you before you could him. “We have reason to believe that one of the victims involved in the accident on route six is your brother, Oliver Y/L/N.”

“That’s impossible,” you chuckled with narrowed eyes. “My brother’s out of town until the end of the month, he couldn’t possibly be in a car accident. Are you absolutely sure that he’s involved? Is there a possibility that you’re mistaken?”

“We are unable to identify the body, but his motorbike was placed at the crash site,” the shorter male informed you and your heart dropped when you remembered Chris had taken the bike- your brother had left at your place for safe keeping- this morning. “Do you know anyone with access to your brother’s bike? We could really use-”

“My husband,” you cut him off and you heard Lisa gasp. “My husband took my brother’s bike out this morning. Oh my God,” you breathed and felt the bundle of balloons escape your grip; they flew to touch the ceiling. “No no no,” you shook your head. “That’s impossible, Chris wouldn’t- he’s too careful on the- No,” another head shake. “It can’t be him, my husband is not dead!” You felt the tears spill out of your eyes.

“We’re very sorry to ask you to do so, but we’re going to need you to come with us to help identify the body.” The taller male told you and you quickly nodded, grabbing your purse by the door. You glanced over your shoulder at Lisa as you followed the police officers out; she was lost in her thoughts. “After you, Miss Y/L/N.” He held his car door open for you.

“Just give me a moment,” you told him and he nodded. “Lisa,” you walked over to her and took her shaky hands in yours. “We don’t know if it’s him,” your voice broke as you tried to reassure her. “Maybe he let someone else use Oliver’s bike after getting to the studio, or maybe the bike got stolen- I don’t- um- I don’t know,” you tried not to start crying when you remembered you were pregnant and your daughter might not have a father. “But we mustn’t lose hope yet because…” You trailed off, unable to find the right words.

“I can’t go down, Y/N,” she shook her head and you nodded understandingly. “I’m sorry,” she hugged you and you hugged her back, taking slow breaths to stop yourself from breaking down. “But you’re right, we don’t know yet.” She said as she pulled away; you nodded in response. “Call me as soon as you find out, okay?”

“Okay,” you nodded.

You left her at your house then got into the police car and let them take you to the crash site. You may not have been a religious person, but it didn’t stop you from praying. You couldn’t lose Chris, especially now that you were pregnant. You didn’t know what to do with a child, you had a child because of him- because you loved him. How were you meant to raise that child alone? How were you meant to look at your daughter and tell her her dad was the most amazing man you’d ever met and never let her meet him? How were you going to survive the rest of your life without the love of your life? Your hand rested on your stomach and you broke down crying, silently begging whatever greater being for your husband to be alive.
• • • • • • • •
The car pulled to a stop in front of a park; the same one where you and Chris worked together on screen for the first time, not that you were in the right mindset to notice. Your entire world had been rocked thanks to your husband and his insane plan to turn the tables on you, except his plans weren’t as easy to find out about as he’d confided in professional actors rather than family members. Of course he’d confided in Lisa and Scott- the two who accidentally let both your pregnancy and prank plans slip, but somehow managed to keep his to themselves- and they both told him it was a bad idea and that you were going to be pissed when you found out it was all just a prank. But did Chris listen? No, because clearly it wasn’t a bad enough idea if his mother and brother didn’t stop him from doing it. Plus- Chris knew you, you’d appreciate a good prank; he was ninety-five percent sure about it. If you didn’t- well, he had a spontaneous trip to Paris to make up for his insanity.

“Wait,” your eyes narrowed as the policemen got out of the car. One opened the car door for you and beckoned you out. “I don’t understand, I thought the accident was on route six.” He didn’t say anything, he just gestured for you to follow him. “I just want to know if my husband’s okay,” you told them and they both nodded.

Chris spotted you and the 'police officers’ approaching and he sat on your brother’s motorbike, laughing. It was pretty sick joke, yes, but he was so excited to celebrate the pregnancy with you that- he didn’t care. He knew when you saw him that you’d understand that it was just an April Fools joke and laugh because he’d turn the tables on you instead.

“Where are you tak-” You stopped yourself when you saw Chris, perfectly fine and in one piece. He waved at you with a cheeky smile; you were so relieved that you couldn’t think about anything else- like how it was just a stupid prank. “Thank God,” you breathed and ran towards him as he got off the bike. “Oh my God,” you threw your arms around his neck and he hugged you tightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “I thought you were dead,” you started crying out of absolute relief.

“Yeah, I’m not that easy to kill,” he chuckled. “April Fools, baby.” He said and you pushed him away, frowning. “What?” He laughed, grabbing his left breast. “I just elaborated on your plans a little bit. We’re in the film industry, I thought you’d appreciate the dramatics.”

“A little bit?!” You slapped his arm and he pressed his lips together, suppressing his urge to laugh. “They told me you were dead, Chris. Mine was just emergency room, yours was death! Death, Chris, death.” You emphasized and he nodded, chuckling as he pulled you into his arms for another tight hug. “What the hell is wrong with you?” You chuckled wearily as you hugged him back; you were too happy that he was okay to be mad about the severity of his actions. “No more April Fools for us,” you said, pressing your head against his chest. “We clearly don’t know how to prank each other, it’s getting a little much.”

“Okay,” he chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “I’m sorry, baby. I know it’s been a stressful day, my mom and Scott both said it was a bad idea.” You scoffed and chuckled at the same time; no wonder Lisa didn’t come down. “But hey,” he pulled the plane tickets out of his back pocket as he pulled away from you. “We can relax in Paris.”

“I was about to ask you how you were going to make up for this,” you smiled as you took the tickets from him; he chuckled in response. “Do you want to know how I’m going to make up for the prank that didn’t happen?” You quizzed, reaching into your own back pocket for the sonogram.

“I think I already know,” he smiled and placed his hand on your stomach. “They might have let the baby news slip too when they let your prank plans slip.” You chuckled and pulled the sonogram from your pocket, passing it to him. “I can’t believe we’re going to be parents to a baby girl,” he smiled at the sonogram then at you when you placed a hand over his.

“I know, right?” You laughed. “We are so immature and we’re about to be parents,” you said and he joined you in laughter. “Ground rules before the baby comes, no more pranks like these. No more dead or emergency room pranks because- it’s ridiculous and it’s irresponsible.” He nodded in agreement, chuckling. “I am so glad it was just a prank,” you told him and hugged him again. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d lost you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart,” he hugged you tightly as he whispered into your hair. “Not for a very, very long time.” You smiled and looked up at him. “I love you,” he smiled and dipped his head to meet your lips.

“And you’re lucky I still love you after that,” you bit playfully.

“Yes I am,” he laughed.

Tags: @chrisevans-imagines @widowsfics @m-a-t-91 @xoxomioxoxo @imaginesofdreams @ateliefloresdaprimavera @katiew1973 @winter-tospring @shamvictoria11 @caitsymichelle13 @michellekeehlmello @letterstomyself21 @soymikael @faye22 @always-an-evans-addict @sammyrenae68 @brobrobreja @elizabeth-matsuoka @thegirlwiththeimpala @camerica96 @all-of-the-above11 @captainamerica-ce @whenyourealizethisisntagoodname @yourtropegirl @smoothdogsgirl @createdbytinyaddiction @siofrataylor @dreamingintheimpalawithdean @imaginary-world-of-mine @wanderingkat77 @grantward3 @rileyloves5 @chrsmom302 @buckys-shield @mylittlefandomfanfictions @breezykpop @catch-me-im-a-falling-star @tabi-toast @ssweet-empowerment @hayleesteashoppe @chrixa @feelmyroarrrr @akidura79 @louisespecter @castellandiangelo @ccrossfire @assxmblesstuff (Inbox me if you’d like to be added to the tag list)

Who You Are

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Warning(s): swearing

Summary: You are on a mission of your own when you get caught by a certain superhero.

You take in a deep breath before taking a step out of the bright yellow taxi and shutting the door. You look straight up, scanning the wide, glass covered, thirty-floor building looking for anything out of the ordinary. You then nervously fix your blouse and straighten out your skirt before heading towards the main doors of the building. You understood why they picked you for this mission, but you were just the healer. You didn’t put your life at risk like this. Like the others….

“Y/N once you get through the doors there will be a security checkpoint. You are going to need to use the I.D. badge that I gave you and swipe it at the scanner. It should hopefully work and get you in,” says one of your teammates, Ida, through the intercom placed in your ear.

“Hopefully?” you hiss quietly, “You mean to tell me this might not work?”

“I am 99% sure that this will work. I mean, come on. It’s me we are talking about,” she replies rather smug.

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