the thing i did during my holiday

THE GUARDIAN: St. Vincent: ‘I’m in deep nun mode’

For years, the Grammy winner was best known for her experimental music. Then dating Cara Delevingne put her in the spotlight. What’s next, asks Tom Lamont?

Saturday 19 August 2017 06.00 EDT

The musician St Vincent, a 34-year-old Texan whose real name is Annie Clark, is talking about body piercings. Though her outfit today includes such exotic items as a leopardskin onesie and a pink blazer made of some sort of wetsuit fabric, Clark doesn’t have any outlandish piercings herself; she just has droll and strong opinions about them, as she has droll and strong opinions about a lot of things.

“Didn’t it always make you laugh,” Clark says, already laughing, softly, in the museum in London where we meet one summer afternoon, “how people in the 90s who had, like, tongue rings? How they’d always make some sort of comment, intimating that it made them, like, better at oral sex? That was the whole wink-wink thing, right? That a tongue ring meant they were kinda kinky? But then, I guess the challenge – because they were constantly fidgeting with this gross thing in their mouth! I guess the challenge became: no one wanted to get head from them.” She hoots with amusement, just loud enough to turn heads in the hushed museum.

Conversation with Clark is like this: a bit unexpected, a bit arch, a bit sexy. She sometimes speaks so slowly and carefully it’s as if she’s reviewing individual words before committing to them. But, as with the lyrics of the songs she writes as St Vincent – always inventive, always making disarming leaps between ideas – you can never predict where her thinking will travel next. Quickly the chat about oral sex gives way to the matter of her own death, and her expectations of a brisk cremation. Before I know quite how, she’s got me talking about an irrational fear of being buried alive. “Get cremated!” she urges.

I ask Clark – who will soon release her fifth solo album, a follow-up to 2014’s self-titled St Vincent – why she suggested we meet in London’s Wellcome Collection, to combine our interview with a tour around the museum’s collection of antique medical equipment. Clark peers with interest at a display of old enema syringes and explains that in every unfamiliar city, “you should try to see something real and strange”. It was something the Talking Heads frontman David Byrne once advised her about touring the world, and she’s stuck to it ever since.

So far I’ve enjoyed the kind of success where I might get a free appetiser sent to my table. But it’s never a main That phrase – “real and strange” – describes Clark’s appeal as a musician. She is a generational talent on guitar, one of those poised, unperspiring types who can do the manually ludicrous while hardly appearing to try. Seen live, Clark’s fingers flit over the strings of her instrument with utmost precision – that’s the real in her. The strange comes via the writing and the composition, which on her four St Vincent albums since 2007 have tended towards the experimental and jagged-edged. Lyrically, she might choose a thing (prostitution, CCTV surveillance, prescription drugs) and then chew it over in repetitive, often anguished ways, before elevating the mood with a sudden joke. “Oh, what an ordinary day!” she sang on a track from her last album. “Take out the garbage… Masturbate.”

Genre labels won’t stick to her. Song to song, Clark might channel Björk then Iron Maiden, then belt out a disco number before pretending to be a fey, shoe-gazing whisper-singer. In the manner of FKA twigs or Héloïse “Christine and the Queens” Letissier, she is a performance artist as much as she is a performer; last year Clark played a gig dressed as a toilet, complete with cistern, protruding bowl and flush. And like twigs, who for many years has been in a relationship with the Twilight actor Robert Pattinson, Clark has managed to cultivate a shadowy, unknowable persona while at the same time dating a wildly high-profile superstar. For 18 months or so, until a break-up made public last summer, Clark was going out with Cara Delevingne, arguably the best-known model in the world.

St Vincent and Glass Animals play in London, February 2014. Photograph: London News Pictures/Rex

In the museum, while leaning over a glass display of clay death masks and shrunken human heads, we discuss Clark’s scaling achievements as St Vincent. From album to album, over a decade, her sales as well as her reviews have improved in happy tandem. The most recent album, 2014’s St Vincent, was her best to date, a wild, raucous thing, written in part during Ambien-soaked nights on tour, that eventually won her a Grammy. “It sounds like a very Pollyanna-ish thing to say,” Clark says, “but my ethos has always been to just make the music that I hear in my head. And I’ve been incredibly lucky, so far, that that’s seemed to correspond to external progress.”

Where does she place herself right now in the music industry? “So far I’ve enjoyed the kind of success where I might get, like, a free appetiser sent to my table,” Clark says. “And that’s awesome, I’m thrilled by that.” She fixes a level gaze before adding: “But it’s never a main.”

A word about her hair. Three years ago, while touring and promoting that self-titled record, Clark had a fantastic and unforgettable do – a triangular mountain of silver-bleached curls that made her look, in her own words, “like a scary cult leader”. I half-expected her to show up that way today, under the same teetering pile of silver, but Clark says the bleach killed off that haircut years back. She had to shear off her frazzled curls, “and then my look was less cult leader, more ‘Why do you have a rodent on your head?’”

She has a flair for naming her own haircuts, having cycled through such past constructions as “the Audrey Hepburn with anger issues” and “the Nick Cave minus the receding hairline”, and when I ask about the straightened black parting she has today, Clark decides: “I want to call this one… the Lara-Flynn-Boyle-in-the-90s.”

She isn’t quite such a speedy creator of names for her albums. The new LP still doesn’t have a title. I’ve heard about two-thirds of it and it’s superb – the same appealing, enigmatic, genre-spliced collision of ideas and influences that St Vincent fans cherish, only this time with a sleeker, more accessible through-line that ought to further expand her listenership. Some of the tracks, such as the scratchy, stirring Hang On Me, would work as well over the titles of a grand HBO drama as played through fizzing speakers in a dive bar. There are moments of peculiar, wonderful poetry. “Sometimes I feel like an inland ocean,” Clark sings, on a track called Smoking Section. “Too big to be a lake, too small to be an attraction.”

A number of the songs certainly sound as though they pick over the end of a serious relationship, in particular an astonishing meta-epic she has written called LA, which seems to be about a break-up (“How can anybody have you and lose you and not lose their mind, too?”), while at the same time being about a fiercely avant garde musician’s reluctance to do anything as obvious as write about a break-up. “I guess that’s just me, honey, I guess that’s how I’m built,” Clark sings, “I try to write you a love song but it comes out in a melt.”

Delevingne would be the most likely identity of “honey” here. But Clark is far too cool in person – and too determinedly non-specific as a lyricist – to admit to anything like that. “I don’t love it when musicians speak about their records being ‘diaries’ or ‘therapy’,” she says. “It removes that level of deep instinct and imagination that is necessary in order to make something that transcends.” She adds that such ways of talking too often become “erroneously gendered, in the sense that the assumption from the culture at large is that women only know how to write things autobiographically, or diaristically, which is a sexist way of implying that they lack imagination.”

This being said, Clark concedes, “my whole life is in this record. And this is one of the first interviews I’ve done about it. And I guess I haven’t 100% figured out how to talk about it. I mean…” She laughs suddenly, a brilliant, solemnity-shattering hoot. Clark is aware there will be an assumption that a lot of her new songs are about her ex. “I’ve really got to figure this out, right? If I’m going to ever be able to talk about the record?”

As is her custom whenever she’s finalising an album, Clark has currently placed herself in what she calls “deep nun mode”. Single. Work-focused. “Completely monastic. Sober, celibate – full nun.” I’m pretty sure she’s joking when she adds, in her slow, funny, unpredictable way, “I mean there are always sex plans. But none for, like, a month.”

Photograph: Arcin Sagdic for the Guardian

Clark was born in 1982, briefly an Oklahoman before her parents separated and Clark relocated with her mother and two older sisters to a suburb of Dallas, Texas. “My mom was a social worker. She dedicated her life to doing very admirable things. One of my sisters more or less followed on that path, making the world a better place. But I did not.” Though Clark would see her father during school holidays, she describes her teenage years as “matri-focal”. She was surrounded mostly by women. “And Mom’s mantra was: ‘We girls can do anything.’ She didn’t explicitly call it feminism, but it was baked into our DNA.” Her mother had a quirky, creative streak.

Once, after she’d accidentally crashed the family car, she was so intrigued by the aesthetics of the wreck, she climbed out to take photographs of it. “There was probably a picture taken of me and my sisters every day of our childhood. Have I seen any of those pictures? No. Has she gotten them developed? Mostly not. It was just her way of feeling safe, I guess, as if things would last for ever because she had documentation of it.”

Is Clark the same in her songwriting? Documenting and so holding on to vanishing events and feelings? “I’m trying to get rid of things,” Clark laughs. “I’m trying to expel them.”

We walk to Regent’s Park, where the warm weather and an outdoor art show have drawn a milling crowd. A sculpture installed by the park entrance resembles a tall pile of replica footballs. Fitting, as Clark was quite a player when she was young, soccer one of an eclectic assembly of high-school interests. “I was probably insufferable. I was the president of the theatre club, the kid who put Bertrand Russell quotes on their wall.” When I ask who her friends were at the time, she does not hesitate: “Oh, the sluts and the weirdos.”

Clothes from a selection, garethpughstudio.com. Styling: Priscilla Kwateng. Stylist’s assistant: Stanislava Sihelska. Hair: Stephen Beaver at Artists & Company. Makeup: Dele Olo. Photograph: Arcin Sagdic for the Guardian

Music was her main obsession. “I was a 10-year-old fan of Pearl Jam and Nirvana, and I would’ve got into a fistfight defending them. Art mattered.” Her maternal uncle, Tuck Andress, was a touring musician, half of a jazz duo called Tuck & Patti, and during the summer Clark graduated from high school he gave her a job assisting his band on tour. Clark enrolled at a music college in Boston after that and lasted a couple of years before dropping out and heading back out on the road, this time as a musician in her own right. She toured successfully as part of the expansive, experimental band the Polyphonic Spree and later as a guitarist for Sufjan Stevens.

She’s always been a political liberal – these days, one in mourning over last November’s election (“I feel like we watched America vote on their daddy issues”) as well as the reign of President Trump, a man she refers to as “a cartoon yeast infection”. As early as her teenage years, Clark had to get accustomed to the fact that a great many political and social norms, predominant in the suburbs where she grew up, were not her norms.

She believes in the essential fluidity of sexuality and of gender. (“Boys!” she sings on a new track called Sugarboy, “I am a lot like you. Girls! I am a lot like you.”) “The mutability of gender and sexuality, as you can probably imagine – that was not a prevalent subject in the suburbs of Dallas when I was growing up. Not even a little bit! And no shade on it now. I love Texas, I’m there all the time seeing family. But I was always gonna get out of there. It felt imperative that I get out of there.”

I can only write about my life, and dating Cara was a big part of my life In her 20s she moved to New York, borrowing the name St Vincent from one of the city’s hospitals, by way of its mention in a Nick Cave song. (St Vincent’s hospital was where “Dylan Thomas died drunk”, as Cave sang in There She Goes, My Beautiful World.) She released a debut record called Marry Me in 2007 and toured it through Europe to dispiritingly inattentive audiences, carrying away from London a special memory of “playing in a pub where you definitely couldn’t hear me over the crowd”. Between her next couple of records, Actor (2009) and Strange Mercy (2011), her career really started to take off. She performed on US chatshows; wrote and wrote; founded an influential creative relationship with Byrne, after he approached her at one of her gigs. “I was kind of stunned,” Byrne later said, of seeing Clark play guitar for the first time. The pair would collaborate on a celebrated 2012 album, Love This Giant.

By the time her 2014 album won the Grammy for best alternative album, Clark was entitled to ask, as she did ask: “Alternative to what?” Prince came to one of her shows, and she was invited to guest-guitar for the surviving members of Nirvana, later for Taylor Swift. As an award nominee at the Brits in spring 2015, Clark came and went on the arm of Delevingne – and pretty much overnight her public persona became a curious, split thing. As St Vincent, she was a fiercely respected musician, patiently fattening a fanbase in the most honourable way, by writing and recording and touring hard. As the “secret girlfriend” (Metro) who was “secretly dating” (Mirror) Delevingne, she was tabloid feed. Clark saw first-hand what it was like for somebody she cared about to be “hounded, hassled, hacked – all of that stuff”.

‘Certain levels of fame are unenviable’: with Talking Heads’ David Byrne

“Having seen certain levels of fame,” Clark tells me, “having been, y’know, fame adjacent… That in and of itself seems very hectic to me. If it’s a natural byproduct of doing what it is you love? Then great. But there are certain levels of fame that I’ve seen, just by proxy, that are unenviable.”

If the upward trend of her music continues, she might find herself in a similar place, whether willed or not. Clark shrugs. “I can’t control any of that stuff. So what am I gonna do? I’m just gonna keep making music. I know this is another Pollyanna answer, but it’s about the music. Did I write better songs than on the last album? Did I sing them better? Did I play better guitar? Did I connect?”

Maybe it was that I heard a low-quality version of the track, but on a new-album song called Pills there was a minor failure to connect. I misheard the song as having a lyric about somebody being “defamed by fame”, something I took to refer to Clark’s 18-month stretch in a celebrity relationship and all the demeaning wrangling with paparazzi and gossip bloggers that must have entailed. Clark looks panicked and says, no, the lyric was about someone being “de-fanged by fame… What I was referring to was that people’s art sometimes suffers when they get into that too-big-to-fail mindset. How things get really boring when people get too risk-averse, or too comfortable, or when they have overheads that are too high.” She can’t seem to get my mishearing of the lyric out of her head, though. “Oh!” she says eventually. “Maybe ‘defamed by fame’ is better?”

For a moment she seems to be wondering how quickly she can sprint to Heathrow from here, and fly back to America to rerecord it. In the end she decides she’ll let listeners hear what they want to hear. “There is no way to control how people perceive a song. And if you try to, my God, are you in for a sisyphean task.”

In the park we walk up a promenade between neatly manicured flowerbeds. When we settle on a bench, Clark seems overawed. “This is so beautiful,” she says. “I love this. Do you know how hard we’d have to work, in the States, to keep something this beautiful this beautiful?”

With former partner Cara Delevingne in September 2015. Photograph: Dave Benett/Getty Images for Burberry

She’s now ready to address the Delevingne quandary. When the new record is out, reference to her ex will be exhaustively scoured for – it’s already started to happen, as when Clark released a single called New York in June, and Vice responded with a think-piece: “Is St Vincent’s new track a love song for Cara Delevingne?” Nobody trawled through her past writing about CCTV surveillance, or masturbation, in quite that way. “Nuh uh,” Clark says.

She takes a breath. “Right! Um. I’ve always kept my writing close to the vest. And by that I mean I’m always gonna write about my life. Sometimes, in the past, I did that way more obliquely than now. But it’s almost like an involuntary reflex. I can’t help but be living and also taking notes on what’s going on, always trying to figure out how to put that into a song. And that does not mean there’s literal truth in every lyric on the way. Of course not. But I can only write about my life, and that – dating Cara – was a big part of my life. I wouldn’t take it off-limits, just because my songs might get extra scrutiny. People would read into them what they would, and you know what? Whatever they thought they found there would be absolutely right. And at the same time it would be absolutely wrong.”

Clark looks out across the park. “A song that means something very specific to me, a song in which I might be obliquely or otherwise exploring some really dark things, is a song that another person might hear and go: ‘Wow, this one really puts a smile on my face.’ I’m thrilled by that. I’m thrilled that people might take my songs into their life and make whatever suits them out of it.”

Clark nods: done. She lets her gaze travel over the park, over the sculptures in the distance, a couple of which look like giant ice-cream cones.

Earlier, she said that she’d got to a point in her career where strangers would send over free starters. If this new album does as well it should, I start to say… “I know, right?” Clark interrupts. “If I play my cards right? With this album? I might – get dessert.” She hoots.

• St Vincent’s new single, New York, is out now through Loma Vista/Caroline International.

• Opening photograph by Arcin Sagdic for The Guardian

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how religion works in Lithuania

it’s funny how statistics say that ~70% of lithuanians are catholic because I know for sure A LOT of us are atheists. not to mention, we are still pagan as heck.

the statistics only show the number of baptized people and baptizing is sort of tradition of our nation. (during occupation religion was one of the main things that helped us to fight for our independence. communists were strict atheists so of course we did everything that they hated). but baptized person doesn’t mean a believer in Lithuania. f.e. from my 24 classmates only 1 boy identifies himself as catholic, other say they are atheists/pantheists. but 23 of 24 are baptized (I am that one person who is not like others).

and having in mind all the pagan stuff we do, the whole “Lithuania is catholic” stuff seems really stupid. we celebrate more pagan holidays than christian holidays. and our “christian holidays” are just pagan celebrations with christian names. we do spells and tell christian fairytales on Christmas (seems like catholic thing to do, yes?), our Easter is 90% pagan, the celebration doesn’t evolve christianity almost at all. we still celebrate Vėlinės, Žolinės, Joninės, Užgavėnės and they are 100% pagan: spells, tales, enchantments, we still do that.

we name our children with baltic pagan names and then we give them another, holy name. our language is still influenced by paganism (example: we call rainbow the Ribbon of Witch), we still have a lot respect for snakes and bees (they are holy animals in paganism).

basically, paganism is alive and it’s in Lithuania. hiding, lurking in the shadows of catholism.

Hi everybody !!!

I’m finally on holiday. This school year was particularly rough for me, I literally had no time to draw (as you did notice I guess haha…). I was in a sewing formation, I had my last exam yesterday, i’m now waiting for the results. I did not have much time for myself these past few months, and so I decided that maybe I will change a few things about my Tumblr accounts. Maybe it would be better to have only one account for all my drawings ? I’ll think about it during the summer. Anyway ! Have a pic of Sauron I just made today <3 

“Reign of Fear” is one of Apocalyptica’s Songs ;)

anonymous asked:

So I'm sure you saw that Niall made a dream jar to be auctioned off for charity for that BFG movie. With it he said “As a little boy, I liked the idea of floating above the trees and looking down on the world from above. Now I like the idea of having someone with me for the ride.” Could you please write a fluffy, but smutty blurb about this for me please! You're writing is the absolute best! I love reading your stuff! You'd make my life complete if you did this for me!

Valentine’s Day was never your favorite holiday.  If anything it was a holiday you just sort of got through more than anything.  You’d only had a boyfriend during Valentine’s Day once in your entire dating career and that was when you were 14.  He took you behind the gym at school, slammed a rose in your hand and then tried to kiss you in a way that resembled a wet vacuum.  So…not the most romantic thing in the world.

However, this year was different.  You’d been dating Niall for six months now.  And you’d never been happier.  Sure, he was ¼ of the biggest boy band in the world who was now going solo and that meant a few insults from his loving fans lobbed your way but he made it all worth it.  He was sweet, attentive, kind, loving and most of all when he kissed you it sent tingles to your toes and electricity to the ends of your hair.  So…far and away different from the wet vacuum.

You’d both agreed weeks ago not to do anything for Valentine’s Day.  Neither of you really appreciated the holiday to begin with.  So why bother living up to the expectations?  Besides, Niall treated you like every day was Valentine’s Day.

But then he’d created his Dream Jar to promote the movie BFG and also to benefit a couple of London charities.  To say you’d been blown away by his jar would have been the understatement of the year.  It was so…intimate.  While Niall was intimate with you in private he was never really that guy that was intimate so publicly.  It put him in a whole new light for you.

This boy.  This man.  This angel of a human being at the end of the day just wanted to ride in a hot air balloon with his love and look on the world below him.

And today, you were going to make that happen.

Keep reading

F, Married, 60. My Taboo Little Secret is about fucking Black Men. I had my first sexual experience at 13. I gave a blow job to a 16 year old white kid from my neighborhood in his parents basement. I loved it By 14, I lost my virginity to my brother’s 18 year old friend. It was so cool being fucked by an “older guy”! I was horny 24/7! Sex was all I thought about! The My Mother, intentionally, or not, I kind of believe the former to be true, gave me book that changed everything. She said, “Its about the South and historic”. Great! I love both subjects. The book was Mandingo! And all I knew were Black Men had Big Black Cocks and the white plantation wives loved those Big Black Cocks! I read it cover-to-cover, and marked the most erotic pages for easy reference! My Mother commented once about seeing the book and my quick references. She gave me a sheepish smile. Mom, what were you to? I masturbated until it hurt thinking about Black Cock!! I needed to be fucked! I “accidentally” ran into my brother’s friend and fucked him in his car. Then came high school full of Black Boys. I made sure to go to our school’s basketball and football games. My parents applauded my school spirit! Yeah, right! I couldn’t care less about school spirit!. I need to experience a Black Cock! After a basketball game one afternoon, a Black senior gave me a ride home. On the way, we stopped to fuck. That weekend he me invited to a party. I was met at the door by my friend. Me and another white girl were the only white people at the party. Two beers and I was tipsy. I smoked a joint, and was so high! More beer and weed, and I was wasted!. My Black Friend led me to a bedroom. We began making out. he laid me back and took off my pants, and fucked me. He came, pulled out and left. He didn’t even close the door! In walked another Black Boy and he fucked me. Then another. Then another. By the end of the night I had been fucked 4 times and gave 2 blow jobs. The other white girl was gone by the time I came back out. I was full of cum and a mess! My sister picked me up and help me hide the fact that I was so wasted. Mean while, all the way home, my pussy leaked Black cum in to my soaked panties. The next day I decided I liked being a slut for Black Guys. Thanks, Mom! This scene was repeated all through high school. I became really good friends with a Black girl, Samantha. Sam was a slut, too! She taught me all about how to dress and act to attract Black Men. At 17, Sam took me to a “Black” bar (you could drink at 18 back then). The owner, David, a tough looking, 60 year old Black guy, took an instant like to me. We were drinking a lot. David bought all our drinks. A couple of hours of drinking later, and David took me to his office. I gave him a blow job. He asked if I would stay after closing so he could fuck me. Of course! After that, it was the bartenders that I gave blow jobs to. Sam had disappeared. No doubt to hook up with someone. The night ended with me and Sam and David and 3 bartenders in his office. I “pulled” my first “train” and had my first 3Some and 4Some! I regularly hooked up with David after that. I considered him ‘my man". He made me cum for the first time. He also did my ass for the first time too! OMG! Instant Butt-Slut" All during this time, I dated white guys to keep my parents suspicion at bay. I wasn’t a bimbo either. I went to nursing school out of state. I visited David when I came home for holidays and vacation. But, I slowed things down. A lot. Incredibly, I hadn’t gotten pregnant. Amazing, since I didn’t use a condom most of the time. And I didn’t catch any diseases. So when I graduated nursing school, I went “white”. I wasn’t an angel while I was away, but I was not having sex anywhere near the volume I was.I got married, and had 3 children. Around 50, I met a 27 year old Black guy who was visiting a friend in the hospital I worked for. I was fucking him before too long. It felt  so good having a Black dick plow my pussy and ass again!. I fell off the wagon! I began meeting Black men again at out-of-the-way bars and fucking and sucking them off in their cars or in motels. I worked nights, so it was easy to cover my tracks. My husband (so, sorry!) never really knew when I was scheduled, so I would say I was going to work and go meet Black Men. At 60, I have no idea how many Black Men I’ve sex with.  All I know is I love the Taboo of sex with a Black Man or Black Men. I just don’t get the same thrill or derive the same enjoyment from fucking white men that I do from fucking Black Men. Mandingo was a long time ago. Thanks again, Mom!

10

My Sicilian Holidays through pictures- 1st Part

  • A list of things I did during my holidays in Sicily.
  • Festino di Santa Rosalia;

  • Eaten homemade Sicilian pizza, “U sfinciuni”;

  • Visited Monreale (about 9km far from Palermo);

  • I went for a walk in Palermo and had a cold cappuccino in a terrace above Saint Domenico square.

  • I visited the arabesque Zisa Castle in Palermo.

  • I went to eat nice sea food in Sferracavallo, a small fishing village.

  • I went to Castellammare del Golfo, another fishing village, in the province of Trapani. I loved the contrast between the mountain, the village and the sea. 

tagged by @loverofpizzaandallthingssweet

welp lets do this lol

1. Nicknames: i have some irl ones and one i often get called on here it meta ^^

2. Gender: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (probably nonbinary/female ^^‘’ actually more genderfluid tbh)

3. Star sign: libra

4. Height: 154cm/ 5′5(?)

5. Time: 5:30pm

6. Birthday: 23rd september

7. Favorite bands: i couldnt say, i like alot of bands/ music


8. Favorite solo artists: again i like many

9. Song stuck in my head: none at the moment

10. Last movie watched: dvd: curious george cinema: the red turtle

11. Last show watched: tv show? proably dad’s army

12. When did I create this blog: november 13th 2016

13. What do I post: reblogs, the occasional text post and hptos and some okayish art

14. Last thing I googled: ”is a jaffa cake a cake or a buiscuit”

15. Do you have other blogs: yeah, a few side blogs

16. Do you get asks: not really

17. Why did you choose your url: me and my sibling came up with it cuz im shit with coming up wtoo manyith names ahha

18. Following: too many 286

19. Followers: 120 (how? idk ;-;)

20. Favorite colours: most blues and the occasional black - depending on the

21. Average hours of sleep: probably like on the holidays - 10-11 hours? but during the week when i have school its like 5-6 hours

22. Lucky number: none(actually proably like 7 or 707 lol)

23. Instruments?: i used to play the piano

24. What am I wearing: dog socks, jogging bottoms and a black tshirt with white dots on it(it reminds me kind of, of space)

25. How many blankets do I sleep with: 2 - blaket then a duvet then another blanket

26. Dream job: no idea tbh - probably something im passionate about

27. Dream trip: to meet my soul in the dark obis umm space?  irdk ;-;

28. Favorite food: hard to choose

29. Nationality: english/british

30. Favorite song right now: i like many i cant choose a favourite

31. what fandoms are you in: too many


okay now for the tags - do this if you want to dont feel like you have to its just a sugestion ^^

@dransnake @art1sty615 @nightsnmagic @keeka45 @anjoysblog @jessitale @ssskeletonsoffun @ask-the-bendy-named-scaf @tea-and-bleps @anika-any @rednmc13 @sherlockgeekgirldoctorwho @akarilloydwg @blueberry32

again you dont have to do it if you dont want to ^^

trans day of visibility

so for trans visibility day let me take you through a fun little timeline

here ya got wee little kirby

skip forward i’m around 10 here, i was at my favorite place in the world, kiawah island south carolina

just look at that sass

i was pretty confident in myself i mean look at those hair extensions

skip forward to thanksgiving 2013, i was thirteen years old and wearing a dress. i had always wanted to look nice for things like this, important holidays and such. and i felt wearing a dress was the right thing to do so that’s what i did. 

now we are getting to the darker part

so during 8th grade i was dealing with so much, on top of that i was so confused about who i was. i was continually dealing with the stress of my depression, anxiety, and other mental issues plus all of this unsure of what the hell was going on in my mind

this is me near the end of march.

april 15th i tried to commit suicide and i ended up in hospital with a .42 BAC, i should’ve died.

i met this person, named dj. they told me how they were genderfluid and they showed me a whole new spectrum of genders. the fact i fell in love with them is so besides the point, because what they did for me is opened me up more and helped me show me who i was.

this was me about a week after i got out of the hospital, i stayed there for about 2 ½ weeks. 

so this is me at the beginning of ninth grade, i was still tryng to fit into what i thought i was supposed to be and wear even though i knew deep down something was off. 

this was homecoming, i remmeber how uncomfrotable i was in that dress, yet i just felt like i HAD to wear one, i HAD to be a girl

around winter of 2014 i began to identify as genderfluid, i told my first person, my friend maura and she was very accepting

i began to dress more masculine when i was home alone and tried to hide my hair because it was causing me dysphoria

yet somedays, like spirit week where i dressed up as carmilla, i still tried to put on a girly front. 

theN BOOM! I GOT MY FIRST HAIR CUT!

i hadn’t gotten my hair cut like ever, and it was so amazing. march 29th, 2015 was the first day i took a step towards accepting who i was

then we got my hair dyed ! major step forward. i was slowly feeling more comfortable with who i was. 

yet there was still apart of me who didn’t feel like what i was was right. so i still tried to do that girly front, wore a dress for homecoming 2015

i began getting really deprssed again and my only savior was band, this was me the last day of band at state finals. my eyes were stained from crying becuase i didn’t know what i would do. luckily i still had theatre

but then i got my first dress shirt

i finally felt like i had something that i could wear and feel comfortable in


then a mircale happened

i got a binder january 2nd 2016

i felt like i could finally breathe, ironic right

yet 2016 brought so many more struggles, a few suicide attempts, some relapses, etc. but this is also the year i’ve been most comfortable with my body

slowly but surely i am becomine more accepting and comfortable with myself. wheter i’m ftm or just non-binary, who the hell knows? ( i know i sure don’t)

right now i’m just working on loving myself for the gender confused messed i am

so in conclusion. i’m kirby. i’m non-binary. and my pronouns are they/them and maybe he/him who the fuck knows

7

REPLICA CHALLENGE #2

Decided to enter this amazing challenge by @redhotchilisimblr​. I think I did well, and this time I did it without CC, which Im proud of myself^^

DESCRIPTION:

This house is called Luciano’s Corner. I built it in Newcrest and its priced at

§85 797 and as I said Its CC-Free!. *Thank you @allisas for the little idea of a sun room, I really liked that! <3*

Luciano, which is a portuguese name, is the name of my grandparent on my father’s side. He is 78 years old and sadly, he doesnt have much mobility as he did before and some problems such as not remembering things sometimes but thats the way life works… He works in his garden trying to keep him occupaded and sometimes he comes to visit us, which is good :D When I younger I would spend a lot of time in his house, in the countryside, specially during the summer holidays. I just loved staying there and helping him in his garden :D I still remember the milk with sugar he used to made before i went to bed…

3

A oneshot where the reader is Sirius Blacks daughter and Fred and her like each other but Sirius is protective and Molly doesn’t like Sirius and gets into arguments with him and his daughter so they secretly flirt and one day they finally  kiss and are caught by everyone - Requested by Anoymous

A/N: I tried writing this as a one-shot but I couldn’t write enough, so I did it as a gif one, I hope that’s all right for you x

If there was one difficulty with the Order using my dad’s house for their meetings it was the fact that Dad and Mrs Weasley couldn’t see eye to eye about anything. All you could hear, most of the day during the summer holidays, was them rowing about things. OK, so there was the odd occasion where I joined in. Things seemed to take an even more difficult turn of events when I started stealing little looks across the table with Fred. Dad had been livid. Practically told me that the bad boy was never the way to go – and he should know because he’d been that charming prankster once.

But did that stop Fred and I? You can guarantee that it didn’t. In fact, it just meant that we had to be a little move secretive about our flirtation.

‘See, I had hoped you might see my underwear one day,’ Fred said from the doorway of the kitchen when I was sorting out the washing which Kreacher had upended in the hope of finding something of my grandmother’s. ‘But this wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind.’

I rolled my eyes, feeling a blush rush up my cheeks. ‘Fred!’ I gasped, turning to face him. He was leaning on the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest.

‘You should really comb your hair. We wouldn’t want people getting the wrong impression.’

He chuckled at that, moving a little further into the room. ‘Would you rather they got the right one?’ he asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow at me.

I rolled my eyes, throwing a pair of socks at him. ‘You could at least buy me dinner first,’ I told him as he plucked a wet sock from his cheek and chucked it back on the pile.

‘That can be arranged,’ he said, moving closer to me still. He only stopped when his chest wasn’t that far from my own. His eyes darting between my lips and mouth. ‘When are you free?’

My attention slipped down to his lips before moving back up to lock eyes with him. ‘How about when you’re dressed?’ I asked.

That mischievous little look which so often flashed behind his eyes returned. The one which I couldn’t help but fall in love with. So I did the thing I’d been wanting to do for ages. I gently moved my hand to his cheek and moved closer. He seemed to understand the gesture as he moved too, our lips meeting in a kiss which I didn’t realise we’d been so close to.

‘Weasley!’ boomed my father’s voice, making the two of us jump apart quickly.

Dad was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. His hands were shaking by his sides slightly. In the gap in the doorway I could see the others. It looked like the whole house was there. Molly was paling; George seemed to be beaming, despite handing a few Knuts to Ginny while Remus smirked at us, placing a pacifying hand on my father’s shoulder.

‘It’s exactly what it looks like,’ I said, looking awkwardly over at Fred. But he was grinning, his eyebrows slightly raised. Maybe this holiday was about to get seriously interesting – if Dad and Molly didn’t decide to flay us alive for this!

A/N: Gif credit goes to the respective owners, I just found them on Google.

anonymous asked:

Hey Jade! How are you? Do you have any tips or advice for adv English in year 11 and 12? I just picked my subjects for the HSC, so super excited but very nervous for next year! Thank you, and good luck for the future! xx

Hey, I’m good thank you! It’s really exciting picking subjects for the HSC, because you get to learn things you really want to learn about rather than follow the mandatory curriculum. What did you choose?

And definitely, I have lots of advice for Adv English and Year 11/12 in general!

- Read your texts in the holidays. You won’t regret it when time comes around and it’s a little hard to fit reading in during all of your other subjects/homework etc.
- Don’t be scared to annotate your texts. This will help you so much when it comes to end-of-year exams and you’ve forgotten what you’ve discussed in the texts.
- Year 11: Practise your writing style. Learn how to write a proper essay, with help from your teacher. It will undoubtedly help you so much in Year 12, where essay writing is a week-to-week occurrence (well, at least for me anyway).
- Don’t just read your school texts. I’m super guilty of this because in Year 11 I basically couldn’t find time to read for leisure outside of school texts, but this could help you a lot! In Year 12, you need to find 2 ‘related texts’ (which are texts that a student finds on their own to write a complementary essay with the text the school makes you read). If you read widely, it may just save you the time trying to search for the perfect text in Year 12!
- Compile a list of past essay questions. This is a lot more applicable in Year 12, but just have a word document. Dump any essay questions for HSC english you find there, it will help A LOT when it comes to trials/HSC (round about now for me, actually!) and you need to write practice essays/moulding to the question.
- Read other essays. Read examples of people online, or ‘exemplar’ Band 5/6 essays (depending on what you’re aiming for English). You may pick up a couple of things that you should do in your essay, and how to improve to reach that top band!
- Read critical material. This is more of an Extension English thing, but does work in Adv as well. Adding critics to your essay isn’t necessary, but definitely ups the sophistication (mainly looking at Module B). Critical articles (which you can find on JSTOR or google scholar) can also help you express your own point in a better way.

And with Year 11, don’t stress too much! None of it AT ALL counts towards your HSC. You can stuff up and make mistakes. I got into the trap of getting so worked up over my yearlies but they literally did not count for anything! And also, have fun in Year 11. I hope this helped!

Journal #17: It just hit me.

My birthday is in three months. I’m going to be seventeen. And after that, I’ll only be at home for one more year. Because…once I’m eighteen, Mom’s kicking me out of the house and shipping me off to Luke for Jedi training.

A year and three months… That’s all I’ve got left. That’s all I have before I’m separated from my parents for who knows how long. Will I still have time to update this blog when I’m a Jedi? Will I even have enough HoloNet reception? I’m not sure. For all I know, the day I leave might be the last you ever hear of me.

I suppose I could do updates whenever I visit home. Mom says that after I leave, I’ll be able to visit on weekends. Then, once I start to adjust, maybe every other weekend. And then, maybe once a month. She doesn’t want me to stay too tied up to home, she says.

But then what? Holidays only? One day a year during her lunch break? 

I tried to tell her how scared I felt, but Mom did her usual thing and told me I’d grow out of it.

Mom says there’s a problem with my generation—the “victory kids,” they call us. The ones born after the Battle of Endor and directly into the New Republic.

“When I was your age, we were all just fighting to stay alive under the Empire,” Mom says. “Meanwhile, all you victory kids are intimidated by the idea of leaving home for the first time and not having the HoloNet.”

…Right.

I’m not scared of not having the HoloNet, Mom. I’m scared of not having you. I’m scared of waking up at night in a cold sweat and knowing that you’re planets and planets away. I’m scared of not being able to hug you anymore, or watch you stand on tiptoe to try to kiss me. I’m scared of realizing that your life will go on without me as if I was never there. I’m scared you’ll forget me…

But, sure. It’s probably easier for you to just think I’m a whiny, entitled teenager.

Businessman

Prompt: After Astoria’s death, you came back to your previous relationship with Draco, just like it were before. Now the office was his, you could have fun in there, but not without being interrupted by his son, Scorpius.

Genre: Smut

Warnings: Daddy kink, allusion to marijuana and alcohol

Keep reading

Please fire me. When I agreed to spend two weeks travelling with a “high-power businessman” as his “personal interpreter” during “global strategy meetings about environmental issues” (he seems like he should be in advertising), I did not know that would include going to dinners with him and him alone and spending 35 minutes reading and translating his entire menu every single night. Good thing I went to school for 22 years and got my PhD.

anonymous asked:

How are you so motivated/disciplined? I'm 20 too but I feel like I don't know how to study or do anything

Hi! 

I don’t think age is much of a factor, so don’t put yourself under too much pressure because of that. You can always start to turn things around, no matter how old you are! 

First of all, I’m definitely not always motivated and disciplined. I rewatched three seasons of Brooklyn 99 over the weekend and did all homework due today yesterday evening. What’s important is that you’re disciplined at the right times, e.g. before exams or during the holidays when you have deadlines. I don’t think anyone can be 100% disciplined all year without any off days. 

I generally have a kind of drive for at least one of my subjects (linguistics), and that helps a lot. Being interested in and loving what you study is a great starting point, because then studying isn’t a burden, but more of a hobby. Of course I still have readings I don’t want to do and generally days where I cba (especially in maths, which can be extremely frustrating), but most of the time that intrinsic motivation is enough to bring me to my desk and study.

I think what works best for me is setting small (!!) goals and rewarding myself when I reach them. That can go from “read this chapter, then eat a biscuit” to “solve this problem set, then have a bubble bath” and “get something better than a B in this, then buy the signed limited edition of a book i want”. Extrinsic motivation helps if you have problems with discipline. Another great method is finding someone who challenges you and who drives you to improve! My now best friend and I were competing for five years for the spot of “best student” in our class (of course it was a friendly competition), and in result we both had better grades. We even bet on our grades (for like a croissant or a pretzel), which we still do today at uni. 

Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t see immediate results, it takes a little getting used to it, but it can work! For organisation, I recommend a good calendar or bullet journal, if that’s more your style. You could also try out different note taking techniques to find out what fits you best. 

I hope this helped a little - if you need any further help please ask! 

Prompt #84: “Those things you said yesterday… Did you mean them?”

Attempt #2 because I accidentally closed the freaking browser and lost like 20 minutes worth of work. *facepalm*

Anyway… this is the last drabble for my “Becca’s Memorial Day Weekend Writing Prompts”! Thanks to everyone who submitted a prompt and read them!!!


It had all started as a way to keep yours and Chris’s respective mothers off of your backs during the holiday season. You hadn’t lied, per say, to anyone that you and Chris were dating each other; the two of you had merely gone to holiday events in the same car and let people come up with their own conclusions.

Then he had needed a date to the Oscars and then to his movie premiere. And who better to take than his childhood best friend? Then, suddenly, it was June and he’d gone with you to your college roommate’s wedding where you’d been a bridesmaid.

You’d been running an errand for the bride, when you’d come across Chris talking with your brother. Hearing your name, you’d moved yourself out of their sight, but within hearing distance.

You had listened as your brother asked Chris what was going on between the two of you and Chris had answered that the two of you were dating. It had been the first time you’d ever heard him actually say the words. Of course, you’d been wishing that the relationship of convenience would become more, but Chris had never said anything about it. Your brother had asked a few more questions, but you’d been too distracted to catch them. As it was, you had to duck into an empty closet to avoid being caught by the two men as they had left the alcove they’d been talking in.

You’d spent the last sixteen hours with Chris’s words running through your head and now he was on his way to pick you up for a barbecue at his mom’s house to celebrate his birthday. You had no intention of leaving for his mom’s house until you knew what the status of your relationship was. Was it still fake or did he want it to be real as much as you did.

When he arrived, you invited him inside under the guise of needing to finish the macaroni salad you’d told his mom you’d bring with you. He followed you into the kitchen and took a seat on a stool while you finished cooking.

“Those things you said yesterday,” you started. “DId you mean them?”

“What things?” he asked.

“The part where you told my brother we’re dating,” you replied.

“Yeah, I mean, we’ve been dating since December,” he answered. “Why?”

“Well, it’s just that we never talked about making our fake relationship real,” you explained. “Don’t get me wrong, I want it to be real, I just wanted to make sure we were both on the same page.”

“It’s definitely real,” he assured you. Standing up, he moved to your side and forced you to put the spoon you were stirring with down. Then he turned you around so your back was against the counter. “So real that I’d planned to tell you that I loved you tonight after the party.”

“Really?” you asked, wide eyed.

“Really.” He nodded. “Do you want to hear it now or is later still ok?”

“Later,” you told him. “I’m sure you had something special planned?” He nodded. “Then definitely later.”

He smiled and kissed you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back, no longer afraid to shower him with all the feelings you’d been holding back.

Writing Prompts (listed for reference only, no longer taking requests)

Masterlist:  Becca’s Memorial Day Weekend Writing Prompts

LRTIHEW: Part Three

The title stands for “Longest Rusame Thing I Have Ever Written”.

First Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/165808913233/lrtihew-part-one

Previous Chapter: https://gospacegay.tumblr.com/post/165809176713/lrtihew-part-two

There is swearing, fluff, eventual smut, insanity, and lord knows what else.


Eventually Ivan had to go back to his own country. After a surprisingly fun visit of two days, the burly Russian’s phone was going off like bomb every couple hours. His strict pseudo-dictator boss was likely furious with him about something trifling. The human knew he simply didn’t answer his phone when on official government sanctioned vacations. Maybe he didn’t answer it other times as well…

Time was a funny thing for nations. Six months could pass by without noticing, yet singular events in society could shape them forever. An entire season had slipped by, winter now gripping all of Russia fiercely. Despite global warming, his land had yet to relent it’s icy heritage. Ivan knitted while staring at the blizzard outside absently.

The power had cut out hours ago, interrupting his prerecorded hockey game. Some fool must have crashed into a pole during whiteout conditions. At least his boss couldn’t call him right now. The living room fireplace crackled warmly, casting a flickering orange glow over the room. Something odd formed in the swirl of flakes outside. It was a dark shape… moving? A person perhaps? They seemed to be carrying something. Strange. Ivan didn’t remember ordering take out.

Still, he should probably investigate. He set the knitting aside, lighting a candle. Before reaching the door, there was loud knocking. Ivan paused, wondering if it was Belarus. She was less obsessive about marrying him these days, due to a century of rejection. Still, she was not to be underestimated. How many times had he woken up to her being in his bed, fondling his shaggy platinum locks of hair? Ivan shuddered at the memory.

“Let me in man! It’s frozen hell out here!” a familiar voice yelled, competing with howling wind. Ivan opened the door, pulling Alfred inside before the house lost anymore heat. The door was promptly closed and locked. The American was bundled up, snow stuck to every part of him. His eye lashes were frosted over into white rims. “Hey big guy! Do you know what day it is?” Alfred asked excitedly, snow falling everywhere as he bounced on his feet.

Ivan pondered the question, wondering if he had missed yet another civic holiday. He was interrupted mid-process. “It’s Christmas! Woo! Merry Christmas Ivan!” Alfred whooped loudly, shoving a wet brown bag of things into Ivan’s arms. Ivan stood there, confused. The honey blonde had used his real name. No one ever did that. Was this a prank? “Open it! Open it!” Alfred urged, peeling off his increasingly soggy winter wear. He wore a brazen American flag shirt underneath with blue jeans.

The present practically unwrapped itself upon returning to the living room. The soggy paper bag fell apart, some items escaping to the floor. There was a bottle of good vodka, a container of dessert squares, a book, and a hand gun. It was honestly a well thought out gift. Ivan did enjoy all of these things naturally.

“Thank you… Alfred. I assume you are here to improve political relations.” Ivan replied, still puzzling over why the American was here at all. It felt so strange to speak in a casual manner, with real names. The other nation frowned. It really didn’t suit him. “No. I came because it’s Christmas, you ass.” he grumbled. The American was a lousy liar, hesitating before his response. Fine, Russia could play this game too. “I apologize, the storms have causes a blackout. I can only offer you tea, or perhaps coffee.”

“I’ll take a coffee… but how?” the honey blonde asked in response. Ivan was no stranger to blackouts, since most of the wiring in Moscow was from the 1950’s to 1960’s. He had a kettle of water and a long iron hook by the fire place. Over the fire was a removable metal grid. Putting the kettle on, Ivan returned to knitting. He looked over to his guest, seeing Alfred visibly shiver. Ivan had waited before in cruel amusement, to see when the stubborn fool would ask for a sweater. He hadn’t for over one hundred and twenty years, and likely wouldn’t now.

At this rate, his knitting was never going to be finished. Ivan stood in the name of good relations to fetch a sweater anyway. As he began the notion, America spoke up. “Hey… while you’re up, could you get me a sweater?” Well, Alfred’s shift in government had really made a difference. Maybe they could finally hold trade meetings without spitting hatred and curses. Ivan desperately needed it after all of Europe sanctioned him into the ground for the third time.

Ivan was going to give him a thin ugly sweater, but changed his mind. Coming back with a vaguely Russian flag themed sweater, Ivan hoped his guest would notice the increase in craftsmanship. “Thanks big guy. It’s freezing in here.” Alfred said, catching the sweater as Ivan tossed it. “The power has been out for two days. I too wish this storm would pass.” Ivan sighed, picking up his knitting needles.

“Two days? That’s totally crazy, and… Wow this sweater is so fluffy! It’s so fluffy and It’s almost America colours! Hey didn’t you used to have a cat?” The jaunt in topics was annoying, but Ivan bore with it. This was the first time in a while anyone had been to his house. It was decidedly nice. “Koshka died some time ago. I have not replaced him, though I am considering it.” Ivan replied. “Oh… that sucks. I used to have dogs, but after having like twelve die on you, it gets too sad. My horse lived way longer, but old age… yeah. Mattie’s so lucky, he has his bear. Apparently he had it before England, before France.” Alfred rambled like normal, “I suppose that makes him older than me by a bit, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling him that.”

“Can’t have Canada having large ego.” Ivan mused, not looking up much. “Exactly. You get it. Love my bro but he could crush nations if he wasn’t so… wimpy.” Alfred agreed. For some time, they chatted about any number of things. Who would die first during apocalypse. England obviously, because he was an idiot. What space satellite design was the coolest looking, which Russia felt he dominated. The inevitable topic of holiday plans came up, which Ivan despised. He didn’t have plans, and never did since the USSR failed. Everyone was still too scared of him, even as his economy crumbled at the edges.

“Well I had plans, but ever since I roughed up North Korea… yeah. Fuck all to do.” Alfred admitted openly. Wasn’t Alfred incredibly popular? Ivan didn’t know these days, getting rather slack in his international espionage. “I did actually come with politics in mind. It’s… uh, I can’t believe I’m asking.” the tanned American started, scratching his neck nervously. Well, wasn’t that interesting. The police of the world was nervous about something.

Dear Mom,

I just wanted to tell you that you’re the most awesome woman in the galaxy.

You’ve taught me everything, you know. You taught me how to read and write, how to do math, how to speak in front of people. You taught me to love knowledge and to always ask questions. You taught me to think for myself. (I don’t know how much you regret that now, but…credit where credit is due, right?) You pretty much made me who I am.

I know we disagree a lot and we argue a lot, but I respect you so much. It’s not easy having to run a galaxy during the day, then come home at night and try to deal with a bratty kid. But you did it. And you’ve done it for fifteen years. Which is pretty amazing, in my opinion.

I know I’m a real piece of work sometimes. I know I make things difficult for you sometimes. But I want you to know that I love you, and that you are so incredibly important to me. So…thanks for being one of my role models, and…well, thanks for just being my mom.