things i convinced other people to write

Beware the Ides of March

this isn’t the fic i intended to write today (or ever really) but it’s the fic that happened so

read on ao3

Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, not really. He also doesn’t believe in fate, or coincidence, or any of those other things that people like to blame random happenings on.

But he will admit that if he did actually believe in any of those things, he would be fully convinced that they were laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.

“Would you just hold still?” Clarke huffs as she tries to clean the wound.


“You’re incorrigible.”

“And your bedside manner sucks, princess.”

She pinches the soft skin on the inside of his bicep and he yelps, glaring at her balefully.

It’s not like he wants to be here, sitting on the uncomfortable examination table in the ER, shirt off, and paper crinkling noisily beneath him each time he so much as breathes. No one ever wants to be in the ER, leaking blood all over the place because they were fucking stabbed in a mugging gone wrong, not even if the opportunity lends itself to a bout of truly morbid humour.

Just this morning he was telling his sophomores about the Ides of March and now here he is, living his own version of it. Again, he would be laughing except- stab wound.

Clarke is bent over his side, wisps of blonde hair escaping her braid and looking platinum in the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she goes over the cut with antiseptic, and he hisses once more.

“That hurts,” he grunts, and then flinches again when she goes back in with another piece of gauze. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but there’s still a lazy trickle that she has to keep wiping up intermittently.

“Stab wounds tend to do that,” she deadpans.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Not to be confrontational but I think from your fanfic critique post I feel like fanfic seems just be an ego trip to get accolades for all the "feels" one can elicit. If critique is not something an author is looking for then what is the point? They just want applause but don't want to bother with producing good writing? They don't want to have to improve or edit or rewrite? I'll be honest, fanfic in general is lousy writing that borrows from other authors. I guess I just don't get it.

People don’t write to be critiqued on their writing.

I’ve been writing since I was five (maybe younger), and never once have I written something and thought, gee, I really hope I get a lot of critiques on this. Critiques are a necessary part of the process, to get better, to improve work that you’ve written, to know what to do better next time, but they’re not why anyone writes.

I write because I love to, because it makes me happy, because I have to. Because the words are there, one way or another. And I share my writing to make other people happy.

And yes, the validation feels nice. Having someone else tell me they love my story makes me happy. The same is true for artists, for musicians, for dancers, for anyone who produces a product. People don’t produce them to be told what’s wrong with them.

I want you to consider something about fanfiction, while you’re busy disparaging it. I’ve posted 575886 words of fanfiction on Archive of Our Own. That’s not the amount of fanfiction I’ve written, just the amount that I’ve shared on this one particular site. I did none of that for pay. I got nothing monetary or physical from that. It was my own time, at the cost of time to do other things, because it’s something I genuinely enjoy doing, and that other people enjoy reading. Some people have written millions of words of fanfiction. For free. So don’t you think we deserve something for that work, even if it’s just someone else telling us that they enjoyed the work we produced for them? Because they don’t all think none of us write well.

Dante’s Inferno was Bible fanfiction. So was Paradise Lost. The award-winning musical Wicked was a college!AU fanfiction of The Wizard of Oz. Good luck convincing people those are lousy writing that borrows from other authors.

I’d tell you to read some fanfiction to see what you’re missing, but frankly, you don’t deserve it.


Do you know how to work the washing machine, Sir Paul? Can I have a discount, Stella? Will you adopt me, Mary? Deborah Ross meets Macca and his girls to celebrate Linda’s legacy – and leaves wishing she could be one of the family

MAY 6, 2017 (Robert Wilson/The Times).- So, off to meet Stella McCartney (fashion designer), Mary McCartney (photographer and food writer) and their father, Sir Paul McCartney, who was once in some band or other, back in the day. (It may come to me.) I had previously been asked: did I wish to meet Stella and Mary and also Sir Paul, who was in some band or other, back in the day? I said, “Yes,” and, “You bet,” and, “Is Stella generous with discount cards if you suck up enough?”
So I was committed, prior to realising the proposed encounter had “poisoned” and “chalice” written all over it, as it would be strictly about the 25th anniversary of the Linda McCartney frozen food range, and Linda’s legacy in this regard, with any other subject being verboten. Also, it would be brief. (Forty-two minutes, as it turns out.) But I was determined to look on the bright side, as in: is Stella generous with discount cards if you suck up really, really quickly?

Armed with “Talking Points for Deborah Ross”, as helpfully provided by the PR people involved – “Paul, Stella and Mary continue to be heavily involved in the day-to-day activity of the brand …” – I make my way to the appointed venue, a house in Soho in London that belongs, I believe, to a friend of Mary’s. It is wonderfully stylish inside, all mid-century modern, but it is tiny, and when I arrive there is barely space to take a breath. The photographer and the photographer’s assistants are still knocking about. The Linda McCartney Foods PR is here, as is Paul’s press person. There are various factotums doing this and that and putting a lunch together. I ascend the stairs – out of the way, top-flight journalist with Talking Points coming through! – to find Paul on the top landing. He isn’t doing that thumbs-up thing – he is sometimes known as Paul “thumbs aloft” McCartney – but does have open arms and is saying, “Hello, Deborah,” which is nice, and superfriendly, and does makes me wish that, in return, I could think of that band. (It may yet come to me. Do you know it?)
They are a striking-looking family. Mary, 47, is darkly pretty. Stella, 45, is 82 per cent eyes. (And also pretty. I’m not playing favourites here.) Meanwhile, Paul, 74, has brown hair and looks fresh as a daisy in a crisp, white shirt and a deep navy suit, both by Stella McCartney. “It’s my new menswear,” says Stella. “He’s my male model.” They are all wearing Stella McCartney because, as Paul says, “We had our instructions.” I say to Stella that I apologise in advance should I happen to call her “Stelvis”, because I’ve a niece called Stella, who has always been known as “Stelvis”. “Why?” she asks. I don’t know. It’s a bit funny, I suppose. “Right.” Sometimes she’s also known as “Stelton John”, I could have said, but instead I opt for: “And are you still heavily involved in the day-to-day activity of the brand?” They confirm that they are. (I think I pulled that back, and still have, “Does the brand have exciting consumer-facing events planned for National Vegetarian Week?” up my sleeve.)
Some would say vegetarian food has evolved since Linda McCartney founded her frozen ready-meal brand, that it has moved on from textured vegetable protein and meat facsimiles, but I don’t know. If your household is non-meat and you come in late and tired, or your kids truck up with friends, what are you going to want to do? Whip some McCartney “burgers” out of the freezer or embark on an Ottolenghi featuring 72 ingredients, several of which you’ve never heard of? (Some of those recipes “run to five pages”, confirms Mary.) It remains the bestselling frozen-food range of its kind – sit on that, Quorn! – and I have to say that, when I cooked a load at home, to see what it was like, the “sausage rolls” went down brilliantly well. “People can’t tell the difference,” says Mary. “I think they are amazing. The meat in sausage rolls is so overprocessed. Is it really meat? Or just eyeballs?”
As it happens, I found a copy of Linda McCartney’s first vegetarian cookbook – Home Cooking, published in 1989 – knocking about my house. I know I have used it down the years, particularly the recipe for beetroot with dill and sour cream. “That’s Mum’s Russian-Jewish heritage coming in,” says Mary.
“Borscht,” says Paul, gnomically.
“Borscht didn’t even exist in this country at that time,” says Mary. “Or quiche. We didn’t have quiche in Britain in that day and age.”
“It depended what class you were from,” says Paul. “3A or 3B.”
“This idea,” says Mary, “that Mum took things people weren’t eating in this country and had the courage to write a book and be ridiculed.”
“It was for one reason,” says Paul. “She loved, loved, loved animals. People would see something a bit creepy, like a frog or something, and they’d go, ‘Ewww,’ and Linda would always say, ‘Its mummy loves it.’ ”
“And you can’t argue with that,” says Stella.
I put it to them that Linda was truly a pioneer, no question, but I am not convinced by the recipe for spaghetti omelette. “My kids love it,” says Stella. On the other hand, it could work, I add, really, really quickly.
Home Cooking was, in fact, Bloomsbury’s bestselling book until Harry Potter came along. But finding a publisher was not easy initially. Linda wrote it with food author Peter Cox, and as he is quoted as saying, in Philip Norman’s biography of Paul, “I went to see one woman who was supposedly a legend in the industry, and who always wore white gloves to the office. She told me a vegetarian cookbook couldn’t possibly sell unless it had some chicken in it.”
“That,” says Paul, “was the climate of the time. There wasn’t vegetarian food. There was one restaurant, Cranks, which Yehudi Menuhin was something to do with, and I always thought that was kind of funny, that he called it Cranks. It was kind of self-deprecating and I liked that.” Was it good? “I never went there as I wasn’t vegetarian then.” I guess we’ll never know.
I say the other thing Peter Cox said is that, throughout the writing process, he kept a copy of Jane Asher’s bestselling book on cakes to hand, so that whenever Linda’s attention flagged, as it was wont to do, he’d take it out and start flicking through it with great interest, and that brought her back into the room. Paul laughs and claps, while Stella says, “That is very funny … Would bring her back into the room!”
We then flick through Linda’s book while I comment on the dated photography, which makes everything look so … dingily brown. The “macaroni turkey” – a substitute for a Christmas turkey, sculpted from macaroni – looks especially worrying. “You had to make it because you couldn’t get a vegetarian turkey at Christmas,” says Paul. “It was great,” says Stella. I can now see it could be great, I say, really, really quickly.
And do you remember Linda writing it? “She would have Peter Cox round,” says Paul, “and quite often I’d be in the kitchen, because I was just there, and she’d cook something.” And then photograph it in brown? “And then she’d photograph it in brown.”
“Mum,” says Stella, “was instinctive in the way she cooked, and Peter had to stop her.”
“He’d say,” continues Paul, “ ‘Just before you put that in, let me measure it.’ ”
“I remember,” says Mary, “making a stew and thinking, ‘This tastes rubbish,’ and I phoned Mum and the extra thing was celery.” “Celery is critical,” adds Stella. “She would start all her soups with celery,” says Paul. “Mum and celery, it’s true,” concludes Stella.
Linda – who died of breast cancer in 1998 – was, indeed, ridiculed for her vegetarianism, as all the McCartneys have been. Oh no, here they come, the bloody McCartneys, banging on about not killing cows, and now fish, too. “At the end of the day, what people are forgetting to talk about is fish,” says Stella. “We need to be aware that fish is a stealth industry,” says Mary.
But they’ve proved themselves menschen, have kept at it, haven’t caved on their principles, or gone away quietly. “Almost a third of land is used for livestock production,” Stella might say. “Ninety-five per cent of soya is grown for farm animals,” Paul might add. “The reality of the conversation is that it has to become political,” Mary might further add.
But more and more people have come round to their way of thinking, which must be satisfying. “When I was a child and we said we were vegetarian it was a case of, ‘Why don’t you kill animals to eat them?’ I was the outsider, and you did meet a lot of aggression and anger. But now the landscape is changing,” says Mary. I ask if they’ve seen Simon Amstell’s Carnage, which puts the best case against meat-eating ever. Not yet, they say. You should, I say. They will, they promise. I can’t believe I had to alert you to it, I say. How have you all managed without me for so long? “I’m all for shadowing you and just absorbing,” says Mary. I’m busy, but might be able to fit you in for an afternoon, as a favour. “Thanks,” she says.
I am quite interested in Paul’s food memories. As a working-class boy from Liverpool, when did you first encounter an avocado, say? “I was in Soho,” he remembers, “and we went to a restaurant with George Martin. We were all slightly mystified by the menu and I thought, ‘I can do this,’ so I ordered an avocado pear for dessert, because I’m thinking pear melba, or maybe it’s going to be like stewed pears, and this sniffy Italian waiter said, ‘That is not a dessert, sir.’ I said, ‘Yeah, I know that. Just kidding you.’ I was about 21.”
“And your dad,” says Stella, “brought you back bananas, didn’t he? Because he worked in the cotton trade.”
“It was after the war,” says Paul, “when nobody had had bananas, and he brought some back and said, ‘Look! Bananas!’ We’d never seen them or tried them or anything, and we didn’t like them. He was annoyed.”
And was your mum a good cook? “Yeah, in the traditional way. I ate what everyone else ate growing up. There was no variation. You knew that if you went to a friend’s house it would be the same as at your house. Just like us, they would have mandarin oranges from a tin with Carnation milk. That was very well accepted.”
After you left home and before Linda, would you have cooked? “I lost my mother when I was 14, so there was my dad, my brother and me. My dad would drop into the Cavern where we were playing at lunchtime and he’d say, ‘Here’s tonight’s meal, son,’ and he’d leave me a few chops. I’d get home before him so I’d grill the chops and do mashed potato.”
“It’s always his job, the mash,” says Stella.
Are you competent in other domestic areas, Paul? Could you work a washing machine? “No, I can’t.”
“But,” says Stella, “you can hand-wash in a sink with soap.”
“When we were on tour you did do your socks, because they would get a bit smelly,” confirms Paul. “So before you’d go to bed you’d give them a good rub in the hotel sink, with the little soap, then rinse them out and hang them on the radiator.” I think he is referring back to when he was in that band, whatever it was.
They do miss Linda dreadfully. We meet just before Mother’s Day, and I think they wouldn’t have been willing to say how much they still miss her if I hadn’t mentioned it’s a hard time to get through when you’ve lost your mother, as I have, and there’s all this stuff in the shops. They do it because, much as I’ve been joking around, they are, clearly, kindly people. “You definitely notice it,” says Mary. “I also notice mums and daughters walking down the street and you know they are having a lunch or a shop and are having that little moment.”
“At the end of the day,” says Stella, “for a fraction of a second, I think I can’t believe Mum hasn’t called me today.”
“You did that recently?” asks Paul. “That’s normally the first year, when that happens a lot.
“A friend has just lost her husband and I was saying to her, ‘You think he’s going to walk in the door, don’t you?’ And she said, ‘Yes.’ ”
“You’re going to get me going,” says Stella.
“But look at Mum’s achievements,” counters Mary. “They are so relevant. The balls she had. I am so proud she left a legacy and that she is in each and every one of us.”
Stella adds that she gets it in the neck “for not using fur or leather in my career”, but she doesn’t care. Is grateful to her mother, in fact, “for giving me the spectacles that have allowed me to have a point of view”.
The PRs are madly trying to wind us up now so, as she’s mentioned her fashion range, I decide I’m just going to have to come out with it straight, so I do: can I get a discount? “Yes,” she says, adding, almost with a wink, “and Stelvis.” We’ve bonded. I’ve arrived.
Typically, I then push my luck. I could be up for adoption, I say to them all. I would make a good McCartney. I would bring my own celery. And I’d bring your Jewish quotient zooming back up. “My wife [Nancy Shevell] is Jewish,” says Paul. Decent cook? “No, bless her. When we married she was intimidated by Linda’s reputation, so she said, ‘I’m a lousy cook.’”
“She’s a very good orderer,” says Stella. “She is a very good orderer,” confirms Paul.
They’re half out the door, but time for one last question. Paul, were you in some band or other, back in the day? “Yes. The Quarrymen.” Were you any good? “Damned good. Great little band.” Never heard of them. Sorry.

Deborah Ross has since given up meat
Photos: Robert Wilson
Shoot credits Stella McCartney: Make-up Jane Bradley, hair Lewis Pallett

The easy bias tests

I was reading my notifications and came across my old post being angry about something one of the “Introverts are magical delicate beings AND EVERYONE ELSE IS LOUD AND STUPID”* sites, and wanted to cover the basic bias criteria for a couple common MBTI issues in a post of its own. Apply these standards to see if someone is just trying to convince themselves they’re the best, or if they actually have something worth saying.

I can’t promise I’m innocent of all of these. I try, and I’m open to constructive feedback.


1. The assumption that intuitive types use their judging functions more effectively. To use an example, on average, INTPs and ISTPs should have equivalent use of Ti.

2. The assumption that intuitive types can use sensing functions, but sensors can’t use intuition functions in the same position. Or in other words, an unbiased portrayal would show an ESTJ using Ne just as well as an ENTJ uses Se.

3. The assumption that intuitive functions themselves are inherently more complex or special than sensing counterparts. In other words, both Si and Ni are future focused, using a worldview that is personalized based on either past experience (Si) or conceptual reflection (Ni). That’s it. Se and Ne are both pretty present-focused and divergent. One is concrete, and one is conceptual.


1. The assumption that ‘extroverted’ activities are somehow more of a burden to introverts than ‘introverted’ activities are to extroverts. Introvert refusal to go to parties is just as hard on extroverts as extroverts inviting introverts to parties.

2. Failure to take responsibility for rudeness.

3. The assumption that intelligence is tied to introversion/extroversion. Honestly, this applies to every MBTI bias, while we’re at it, but it’s I think at its worst with the introvert bias.\


Can be for any function. If it’s for both Ne and Ni being the best/Se and Si being the worst we’re dealing with intuitive bias.

1. The idea that any function is itself possessing in an inherent morality. For example, there are some super manipulative Fe users or ruthless Te users. There are also some amazingly loving and nurturing Fe users and considerate and just Te users. The functions are the syntax through which the person expresses themselves. They are not good or bad on their own.

2. Failure to acknowledge the limitations of functions. In short: all feeling functions are based in morality and not logic; all thinking functions are based in logic and not morality; all intuitive functions are based in personal reflection and not concrete experience; all sensing functions are based in concrete experience and not personal reflection; all extroverted functions come from external standards; all introverted functions come from internal standards. So all introverted functions do not automatically make sense to anyone else, all extroverted functions assume some level of shared reference, and so on. If you think a function is all-knowing or universally the best way to approach life….it’s not.

3. This bias often goes hand in hand with a belief that functions are set in stone. And while I do believe that it’s pretty much impossible to change type, at least once you’re in early adulthood (also…why would you? Seems like a lot of work for not much difference) it’s definitely possible to improve and change as a person.


if someone uses personality theory to excuse bad behavior without consequence, to write off swaths of the population without knowing them based solely on personality type, or credit unrelated skills and traits like intelligence or creativity to certain types, they’re doing it wrong.

*I realized I put an asterisk in and never put in the comment, so this is an edit. Basically what I wanted to say is it’s totally cool to think of yourself (or your type) as special! But so are other people, and if your specialness requires you to convince yourself you’re superior, rather than that you have specific cool things to offer that differ from other people’s cool things…you actually are terrible. It’s not the unicorn stereotype that’s the problem; the problem is that you won’t let others have a dragon stereotype.

The Madness Vase/the Nutritionist

by Andrea Gibson

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables,
said if I could get down thirteen turnips each day
I would be grounded, rooted.
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight,
said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do.
I handed her the twenty and she said, “Stop worrying, darling,
you will find a good man soon.”

The first psycho-therapist said I should spend three hours a day
sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and my ears plugged.
I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking
about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet.

The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth, 
said focus on the out breath,
said everyone finds happiness
if they can care more about what they can give
than what they get.

The pharmacist said Klonopin, Lamictal, Lithium, Xanax.

The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget
what the trauma said.

The trauma said, “Don’t write this poem.
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.”

But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River
convinced he was entirely alone.”

My bones said, “Write the poem.”
To the lamplight considering the river bed,
to the chandelier of your faith hanging by a thread,
to everyday you cannot get out of bed,
to the bullseye of your wrist,
to anyone who has ever wanted to die:

I have been told sometimes the most healing thing we can do
is remind ourselves over and over and over
other people feel this too.

The tomorrow that has come and gone
and it has not gotten better.

When you are half finished writing that letter
to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried,
but when I thought I’d hit bottom, it started hitting back.”

There is no bruise like the bruise
loneliness kicks into your spine
so let me tell you I know there are days
it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets
while you break down like the doors of their looted buildings.
You are not alone
in wondering who will be convicted of the crime
of insisting you keep loading your grief
into the chamber of your shame.

You are not weak
just because your heart feels so heavy.
I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth
with a red cape inside.

Some people will never understand
the kind of superpower it takes for some people
to just walk outside some days.
I know my smile can look like the gutter of a falling house
but my hands are always holding tight to the rip cord of believing
a life can be rich like the soil,
can make food of decay,
turn wound into highway.

Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says, 
“It is no measure of good health
to be well adjusted to a sick society.”

I have never trusted anyone
with the pulled back bow of my spine
the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound.
Four nights before Tyler Clementi
jumped from the George Washington bridge
I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
calculating exactly what I had to swallow
to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down.

What I know about living
is the pain is never just ours.
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo,
so I keep listening for the moment the grief becomes a window,
when I can see what I couldn’t see before
through the glass of my most battered dream
I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.

So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin
don’t try to put me back in.
Just say, “Here we are” together at the window
aching for it to all get better
but knowing there is a chance
our hearts may have only just skinned their knees,
knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming

let me say right now for the record,
I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance,
even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet.

You, you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.

Raising your bite against the bitter dark,
your bright longing,
your brilliant fists of loss.
Friend, if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,
my god that is plenty
my god that is enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs
whispering over and over and over,
“Live. Live. Live.”

i just had an idea for a fic with everyone/yoongi

i think of the weirdest AUs istg

i just thought it’d be really interesting if there was an a/b/o fic and everyone in bangtan was an alpha except yoongi

BUT instead of the whole omega!yoongi x alpha!everyone thing, yoongi was a beta

can you imagine

in my head, betas are basically like your everyday human whereas alphas and omegas have the heightened senses and more carnal instincts

and betas are pretty much the minority and the majority are alphas and omegas

alphas have ruts and omegas can have heats (but not the crazy intense things that usual a/b/o fics have but just think of a week  in the cycle where omegas and alphas are extra horny, touchy, sensitive, but still able to function and not losing their minds or in pain or anything)

and yoongi’s just long-suffering, having to deal with these alphas

they’re not that bad though, especially from some of the stories yoongi’s heard about in other groups

actually, except for maybe the occasional scuffle (mostly between maknae line, sometimes hoseok & occasionally jin, namjoon is rare bc he’s incredibly good at self-control though) they’re great

sure they scent mark him and get a bit touchy and protective with him during their ruts, but he doesn’t mind bc all in all it’s not bad

they’re not the stereotypical cocky alphas and they actually listen to him and respect him as the hyung, regardless of their status

they all love him a lot and yoongi loves them all so much (maybe more than he should)

but yoongi’s here thinking, they won’t want me anyway bc i’m a beta and i’m average in every way, what can i do for them

they probably want omegas that can take care of them and be outright affectionate with them and just be everything they need

but nope

they all love him and want him and he’s just super oblivious bc he’s completely in denial about the fact that they could want him

(in this AU polyamory isn’t frowned upon but it is uncommon but relationships between people in the same idol groups aren’t uncommon either since they’re with each other 24/7)

(however mutliple alphas/beta relationship is super uncommon)

(salkghkj what am i doing with my life, why is this a fic that i want)

anonymous asked:

A and B are monster hunting partners. B convinces A to let them bring their datemate, C. A doesn't like C but C is tough, unfriendly, and mean-looking, so they figure it'll be okay. Turns out C is secretly a major soft-hearted pacifist. (New to this blog [and loving it btw!] so I'm just hoping this is how things work here. Thank you!)

Thank you! And there is no real set way of how things work around here. I started this blog just posting my own writing prompts in hopes of helping other people. I never thought my blog would get this popular. Eventually people started submitting their own prompts, and then people started asking for help and advice with writing, the requesting of personalized prompts like this is actually pretty new, but I don’t really mind. like I said, I created this blog to help people, so help people I will. 

1. A: “Are you sure they can handle this..”

B: “Were you even paying attention to them when I introduced them?” 

A: “You’re right, they should be fine..” 

2. A: “Dude.. I know you like them and all, but uh, I dont think this is gonna work. How are we gonna get anything done if they freak out easily and refuse to kill..” 

B: “I know.. I know… They just really wanted to come along, I dont know what to tell them now..” 

3. “A:How can someone with so much muscle and so much attitude be so soft!?” 

4. A:”Just kill it already! What are you waiting for!?” 

C:”I am a pacifist.. I dont believe in killing innocent people..” 

A: “If you havent noticed, that thing infront of you isnt some kind of innocent person, it’s a monster that has murdered countless people! Kill it before it kills you!” 


5. A:”Next time you want to impress someone you are dating, take them on a picnic or something, don’t bring them with you on a job!” 

B: “I know, I know.. I am sorry.. I thought they could handle it..” 

C: “I thought you guys were just trying to catch ghosts on camera or whatever! I didnt think you would make me kill something!” 

A: “What part of ‘monster hunting’ made you think you wouldnt have to kill monsters!?” 

I hope these work for you, and if you ever need anything else, don’t be afraid to contact me! 

F.T.Willz never dies?

Do you remember the theory about FTWillz and his poetry? Around the net, especially in the fandom, this is not news and it seems like this person won’t cease to amaze us.

Since I started to investigate on FTWillz, his poetry has absolutely become my favorite topic.

I spent days around a lot of tumblr blogs and google researches, finding out things I would have never expected to find.

It may be because of the deep meaning behind his poems, or the simple and desperate need of help FTWillz communicates with his dark writing, that the issue concerns me so much.

First of all he had a myspace, then livejournal and finally twitter. What if this is not all?

Recently, a girl informed me about a really important blog she found on tumblr: f-t-willz-must-die.

To be honest, at first sight I thought “this is certainly a blog like another, maybe an appreciation one… I don’t think he would like to be found out so easily with the final ’‘must die” like Frank’s’’ but I had to think about it again as soon as I opened the link.

I made a quick journey in that blog just to see what I could have find and the first thing you can see is that the blog owner hasn’t written anything since September 2013, four months after he made the first post on his blog.

If you search the blog on whasoever search engine, the website does not appear, so it seems like this blog has been hidden by the owner.

This option can be activated once you register on tumblr, in the settings page, where you can allow the search engines to index your blog. So we can say that FTWillz thought that hiding his blog from other ones would have helped him with not being found out by people.

Or maybe he was just desperately trying to be discovered?

We passed hours on this blog, even though it has just 4 pages, and we noticed a lot of interesting stuff about his poetry.

First of all, the way FTWillz writes is stunningly similar to Frank’s, both the lack of capital letters and the frequent use of dashes on their poems.

There are about 34-35 poems written in there and FTWillz “sends” us a message that we can classify as “full of hate” and “desperate”.

Nothing new, right? All things that connect us to Frank’s poetry, whose poems are really similar to the new FTWillz ones.

Other important things can be the notes and the tags: actually, FTWillz didn’t add tags on his posts and he has just two notes, one of which is the girl’s who told me about this blog.

Seems like Frank didn’t want to be found out.

I immediately thought that the blog was a kind of “refugee” where he wanted to write safely without having problems.

The obvious question is: why didn’t he make a private blog?

You can tell this blog is absolutely interesting from every corner of it.

One of the things M noticed was the last poem he wrote, the 20th September’s one that appears on the top of the first page, where FTWillz mentions a certain Sylvia Plath.

I’m pretty sure someone of you recognized the name.

The same poetess was quoted by Frank in an interview years ago during The Black Parade, as a reference to the album, inspired by the figurative death in Plath’s poems.

Can it be just a coincidence?

Talking again about FTWillz, in the poem written the 25th August, I found an extremely important thing that, from the first sight, I’ve noticed.

Do you remember “From My Head to My Middle Finger, I Really Think I Like You”? The poem both Frank and the (not so) mysterious FTWillz have published?

Well, the same sentence was written by FTWillz must die too the 25th August.

Still a coincidence?

By the way, the 23rd May FTWillz published a poem named “houston we have a…” and the “you’re so cool cool cool” line shocked me a bit.

You have surely recognized this line, didn’t you?

The sentence is the same as Kill All Your Friends and this makes me think that this is not just a coincidence. We can notice that FTWillz is pissed off with a person who changed and who believes he is important so he calls him “arrogantly successful”.

Even if you’re not obsessed with this band you can surely tell that Gerard never wanted to be cool (yeah, we all know the NME interview), so we can assume that the fact that Gerard changed pushed FTWillz to write those angry lines.

There’s another thing that I noticed really easily. I am referring to the 15th July poem where FTWillz writes “club 27 has reached capacity”, which is also the title Frank gave to one of his poems in his website.

Still a coincidence? Let’s think a little about this.

If someone still remembers it, back to 2004, a message from Frank appeared to search for Gerard who disappeared after leaving a message telling him he was going to be the new Jim Morrison, who died when he was only 27 (the same age Gerard had in 2004) of overdose.

Now, let’s be honest, in that recording Frank seems to be crying instead of just being sick, so we can tell he cares a lot about his best friend and the fact that Gerard was basically drunk and on drugs all the time seems to confirm my theory. Seriously, Frank was really worried for him.

If you have never heard it, here’s a youtube video where you can find the recording

Do you still think this is just a mere coincidence? This poem is about someone who wanted to commit suicide at the age of 27, come on! It’s obvious now.

Moving on, FTWillz named a poem with a line a letlive’s song, Banshee: “My stomach hates the, hates the bitter taste of the truth” and, in another poem, he uses another line from another letlive’s song, Younger. And I found this thing pretty suspicious.

This could say barely nothing but I made a little research about this group just to see what type of connection they have together and I found something interesting.

Apparently, it seems like the two bands have in common the same label and this explains why FTWillz knows some of their songs.

As I said many times before, you can say this can be just a coincidence and the blog owner could be someone who enjoys making fun of other people and who can perfectly imitate the way Frank writes. And I understand this because I know the fanbase is full of teenagers that do not have anything to do all day, but I’m pretty sure there are a lot of things left and I’m definitely convinced that FTWillz must die is Frank.

Don’t believe me? Take a look here.

Do you think this is something a teenage boy or a teenage girl could write?

I don’t think a fifteen-years-old teenager can write those type of things, especially because I am one. Like the majority of my peers, I’m absolutely disinterested in politics and I’ll never be able to write things like these, not even in a million years. Trust me.

And the main reason I think FTWillz is Frank is the fact that if you open Frank’s page on his university’s website you can tell politics is a topic he is really interested in. I am convinced that he is such an intelligent and cultured man.

Do you think a grown up fan would waste his time making fun of a crowd of teenagers? I strongly doubt it.

In conclusion, I am definitely sure that FTWillz must die is Frank and that he WANTS us to find out these “secrets”. And I am convinced, after I read his poetry, that he was really close to reveal something, something we already know but something they still keep hiding.

Sorry for my not-so-good English and I wanted to thank my “colleague” M for helping me and for tolarating my silliness during this discovery!

We are going to analyze his poems soon so, stay tuned!

I don’t know what I can say anymore, it’s all up to you. There’s definitely more than just “stage gay” between those two.

Alright I’m going to rant so hard on Ian, Nikki, and Kat.

First of all, I cannot believe the time Ian takes to respond to hate comments. You are a 36 year old man and you are really going to defend your wife to a bunch of teenage girls posting meaningless comments? Real mature of you. I’m so sick and tired of him trying to shove it down our throats that Nikki is the love of his life and we should accept and love her just as much as he does. Like honey, I do not give a shit about Nikki or how much you love her. I don’t care about your personal relationship like that’s the last thing on my mind. 

Second of all, the excuse that Nikki and Nina only met on few occasions is absolute and utter bullshit. You’re trying to tell me that Nikki and Nina did not have an established friendship and they only saw each other at public events? It’s very clear through many pictures and other sources that they used to be very close friends. It’s so embarrassing that Ian and Kat are going to the ends of the Earth to defend Nikki when Nina has been their friend and costar for 6 years. I have never ever seen them defend Nina when she was receiving hate for being in a relationship with Ian. No matter how different the situation is, they never publicly defended Nina for any of it. 

Third of all, the audacity that Kat Graham has to involve herself in this situation is BEYOND me. She’s following in Ian’s footsteps and taking the time to respond to hate comments about her dear friend Nikki. Again, you are a 25 year old woman and you are really nitpicking hate comments on your Instagram so you can defend your best friends? Why does any of this matter? Not everyone is going to like them and not everyone is going to be nice about it, you can’t stop people from voicing their opinions no matter how hard you try. It’s unprofessional and embarrassing to see grown men and women respond so strongly to a petty situation.

Overall, I just cannot handle how immature this whole entire situation is. The fact that Ian and Nikki are still trying to shove it down everyone’s throats that they are so completely in love is the most annoying thing ever. They would honestly be a great couple if they didn’t do that. The paragraphs they write about each other on Instagram and the constant PDA in front of paparazzi is getting very old. Like who are you trying to convince? Did it ever occur to you that no one cares? And responding to the people who don’t like you is ridiculous for adults like you who preach about kindness, privacy, and respect. Please start practicing what you preach and seeing the big picture: the world does not revolve around you.

have you always wanted to read the iliad but don’t know where to start ? have you ever wondered what all the fuss is about but never got to reading it ? have you already read it 7 times and wish to collect all of the available knowledge about it ? are you reading it right now and are very very confused ? this is the guide for you. 

first things first, what is the iliad ? it’s an ancient greek epic poem ! and i don’t mean epic in the modern sense of the term. epic as in “a very long poem that recounts heroic events”. 

who wrote it ? it’s attributed to homer. now this question opens up a bunch of other little questions, the main one being “who the hell is homer and did he really exist”. the short answer is : we have no idea. some people claim he existed and wrote a bunch of poems, some are convinced he never even existed, some think he was real but didn’t write the poems. i’ll spare you all of the theories but what you need to understand is that the tradition claims homer as the author of the books, simply because it’s easier than writing something like this on a book : the iliad, maybe written by homer we’re not sure just yet, brad here thinks he’s a myth but owen over there is pretty fucking convinced he’s the real deal. i’m not sure yet but we’re still looking for proofs so until we figure it out let’s say homer wrote it ok ?

when was it written ? traditionally, the poem is said to have been written at the end of the 8th century b.c. but there’s kind of a problem with that as well. certain details in the poem are more modern than that (but they might have been added by someone else than homer) and some are a bit older. herodotus said homer wrote the iliad around 850 b.c., and some specialists say it was around the 7th century. we’ll figure it out one day.

where was it written ? in what language ? it was written in greece in a weird-ish dialect we like to call homeric greek. it’s mainly ionic greek (which is the same dialect as hesiod, herodotus and hippocrates) with a bunch of other dialects mixed in. 

why is there a mix of dialect ? this is were it gets FUN. in greece, there was this period called the dark ages, from the 12th century to the 9th century, where writing disappeared. people would tell each other stories, but they were strictly oral stories, kinda like campfire stories. and those stories, they were passed on from generation to generation and every time a new person learned it, it was changed a little bit. the stories probably travelled all around greece, which would explain the mix of dialects. the “oral tradition”, as we call it, also explains the slightly odd rhythm of the poem. you see, the iliad was written in the dactylic hexameter, which is a special meter used in epic poetry that kinda replicates the natural rhythm of sentences, which makes it easier to remember the poem ! (there are a bunch of theories that claim homer was actually the first person to put the poem in writing, meaning he didn’t compose the iliad, he just wrote it down)

Keep reading

(Concept #1) Harushi Min, SHSL Thief

Age: 18                                                                                                                 Height: 160 cm                                                                                                      Weight: 136 lbs                                                                                                    Blood type:  O+                                                                                                    Birthday:  August 13

General Character Information: Personality: She is tricky and she thoroughly enjoys tricking others.  She has a dark sense of humor around most people.  She enjoys teasing others, but she doesn’t know when to stop.  She’s aware of her situation, but she likes to enjoy herself.  Her seemingly sarcastic optimism (Cynical Optimism) is viewed as twisted by others.  She’s very convincing, she can persuade someone to do something, but this trick may be easy to read because her fingers turn more red when she does this.   She’s hard to understand and she dodges questions about herself quite flawlessly.

Likes: (liking is going to go by objects or actions) Bubblegum, Monopads, and wandering around.

Dislikes: Physical pranks, isolation, and talking about herself.

Abilities: She’s a very fast pick-pocket.  With her ability to convince people, she can buy time to steal their stuff.  She knows what a lot of items are, what they do, how they work, and who would use it.  She’s never lies, but she bends the truth quite often.

Explanations:  She is tricky because she learned that it’s easily to go through life being tricky and hard to read.  Her dark sense of humor is just a personal trait that’s always been with her.  She observes basic personalities of the people around her to understand who she’s going to be stealing from.  She’s tells herself that everything’s okay, and she protects that optimism with sarcasm.  She has a reputation of knowing what’s up, so people are more willing to believe her if she knows what they want to know.  Her fingers get more red because she’s nervous about that truth turning into a lie.  She hates people trying to get close to her.  She has a sort of addiction to chewing bubblegum because it keeps her doing something.  The monopads are generally interesting to her, and she likes spacing out.  A couple of harsh pranks got her despised by others.  She hates being alone and she hates the thought of repeating her past.  She’s practiced pick-pocketing for years to get information and items.  She never lies because she’s afraid to contradict herself or other things.
Stirring In Love

Title: Stirring In Love
Author: andthenshesaid-write
Artist: phanmily (art TBA)
Beta: ineverhadmyinternetphase
Word count: 72k (yes, really)
Rating: PG
Warnings: a couple of swear words, some lack of confidence, inaccurate portrayals of baking and the TV filming process
Summary: When Phil applied to be a contestant on the Great British Bake Off he didn’t even expect to make the long-list, let along make it into the actual tent. But make it he does and there he meets Dan, a baker unlike Phil in every possible way. After a rocky start, Phil realises that maybe he can learn some things from Dan after all, and the biggest things have nothing to do with baking.
Author’s Notes: I’ve been writing this fic since July and I can’t believe it’s finally done. It was a beast and I’m so relieved that it’s out in the world for other people to experience. I recommend you get comfy and stock up on snacks before settling in to read. If nothing else, this fic will make you hungry.

Thanks to all the PBB mods, in particular Kirsty, who tirelessly answered all my questions and reassured me when I convinced myself that I would be disqualified on some non-existant technicality.

Extra special thanks to Julia, my beta, who is awesome and the best person I could have been paired with for this wild baking ride. She was a cheerleader and a reassurance to me when I thought the whole thing was awful. Her enthusiasm and comments throughout the writing of this really kept me going. The fact that I finished the fic at all is a testament to her.

Finally, a note about the recipes featured in this fic: many were lifted directly from various seasons of the Great British and Australian Bake Off series’. These are all credited, with links to the recipes, at the end of each chapter. Enjoy.

                  i  really  don’t  understand  people  in  this  community  who  send  hate  /  put  others  down  .  like  …  i’m  sorry  ??  who  elected  you  roleplay  god  ?  whatever  gave  you  the  impression  you  have  the  right  to  criticize  someone  else  for  doing  something  they  enjoy  (  when  you’re  legit  on  here  to  do  the  same  thing  )  ??  whoever  convinced  you  that  your  negative  word  is  gospel  &  holds  any  validity  ??  is  it  really  that  difficult  to  simply  have  fun  writing  &  leave  others  in  peace  to  do  the  same  ???  

decentsoul  asked:

if it's still meta time: erik and his thoughts on humanity (asdghsf i love this blog)

send me things to write meta about

he’s done with y’all!!!!!!!!!!!! 

like honestly, he’s Done, he doesnt understand why humanity deserves the benefit of doubt as everyone keeps trying to convince him

at large, en masse, mob-headed, always, humanity proves his point again and again –– that people hateful and deadly and he’s not going to sacrifice his own safety and life and wellbeing waiting for a peace he’s certain isn’t going to come. his fear of people and what they can do to each other/to anyone different/to a scapegoat is at the core of who he is and completely colours his perception of humanity

he has relationships with non-mutants on an individual scale, but he would absolutely prioritise his own safety and his people’s safety over how comfortable non-mutants were with his anger/the safety of non-mutants. if that means killing humans he’s fine with it. more than fine with it.

tldr: he’s always aware of the fact someone somewhere is hurting a mutant (: and if it’s the only thing he ever does he’s going to make sure they, and every silent and weak and complicit human, pays for it (:


Can somebody please explain to me what ‘racist truck’ means?

Racist Truck or the Racist Truck People/Duo, refers to SPN writers Brad Buckner & Eugenie Ross-Lemming’s very first SPN episode “Route 666” back in S1, whose plot was “A Truck Haunted By A Racist Ghost Kills Black People, Including The Father Of Dean’s First Love Cassie Robinson”. The episode was so stupid, Bucklemming were fired and weren’t allowed to write another episode until S7, which was after Kripke left.

The episode was stupid (but Cassie Robinson was cool, she is one of the TWO decent things Bucklemming ever did; the other was “A Little Slice of Kevin”, and I’m still not convinced they didn’t just put their names on an Edlund script for that one).

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables
Said if I could get down 13 turnips a day
I would be grounded,
Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness is.

The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight
Said for 20 dollars she’d tell me what to do
I handed her the twenty,
she said “stop worrying darling, you will find a good man soon.”

The first psychotherapist said I should spend 3 hours a day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed, with my ears plugged
I tried once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet

The yogi told me to stretch everything but truth,
said focus on the outbreaths,
everyone finds happiness when they can care more about what they can give than what they get

The pharmacist said klonopin, lamictil, lithium, Xanax
The doctor said an antipsychotic might help me forget what the trauma said
The trauma said don’t write this poem
Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones

My bones said “Tyler Clementi dove into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.”
My bones said “write the poem.”

The lamplight.
Considering the river bed.
To the chandelier of your fate hanging by a thread.
To everyday you could not get out of bed.
To the bulls eye on your wrist
To anyone who has ever wanted to die.
I have been told, sometimes, the most healing thing to do-
Is remind ourselves over and over and over
Other people feel this too

The tomorrow that has come and gone
And it has not gotten better
When you are half finished writing that letter to your mother that says “I swear to God I tried”
But when I thought I hit bottom, it started hitting back
There is no bruise like the bruise of loneliness kicks into your spine

So let me tell you I know there are days it looks like the whole world is dancing in the streets when you break down like the doors of the looted buildings
You are not alone and wondering who will be convicted of the crime of insisting you keep loading your grief into the chamber of your shame
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy

I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside
Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside
Some days I know my smile looks like the gutter of a falling house
But my hands are always holding tight to the ripchord of believing
A life can be rich like the soil
Can make food of decay
Can turn wound into highway
Pick me up in a truck with that bumper sticker that says
“it is no measure of good health to be well adjusted to a sick society”

I have never trusted anyone with the pulled back bow of my spine the way I trusted ones who come undone at the throat
Screaming for their pulses to find the fight to pound
Four nights before Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington bridge I was sitting in a hotel room in my own town
Calculating exactly what I had to swallow to keep a bottle of sleeping pills down

What I know about living is the pain is never just ours
Every time I hurt I know the wound is an echo
So I keep a listening to the moment the grief becomes a window
When I can see what I couldn’t see before,
through the glass of my most battered dream, I watched a dandelion lose its mind in the wind
and when it did, it scattered a thousand seeds.

So the next time I tell you how easily I come out of my skin, don’t try to put me back in
just say here we are together at the window aching for it to all get better
but knowing as bad as it hurts our hearts may have only just skinned their knees knowing there is a chance the worst day might still be coming
let me say right now for the record, I’m still gonna be here
asking this world to dance, even if it keeps stepping on my holy feet

you- you stay here with me, okay?
You stay here with me.
Raising your bite against the bitter dark
Your bright longing
Your brilliant fists of loss

if the only thing we have to gain in staying is each other,

my god that’s plenty

my god that’s enough
my god that is so so much for the light to give
each of us at each other’s backs whispering over and over and over

—  Andrea Gibson, The Nutritionist
So, Let Me Get This Straight....

Killian Jones-

  • Is able to sail a ship fast enough to outrun a curse, completely unaided by any crew
  • Knows how to navigate by the stars and read nautical maps.  Things that I’m pretty sure require a knowledge of astronomy and trigonometry, among other things
  • Is practically a walking thesaurus.   Seriously, how many people do you know who uses words like ‘maleficence?’
  • Can read Ancient Greek
  • Is able to identify writings that have been written in squid ink simply on sight
  • Knows how to dance
  • Most likely a wine connoisseur, based on the fact that he can identify wine by smell alone
  • Can and will notice when someone is using a deck that has six aces
  • Is a master swordsmen

And there are people out there who have convinced themselves that this man is just a stupid, brainless pirate?

frolickingingutters  asked:

I think what I find most convincing about how you write Bruce is that you make him an amalgam of contradictions and compromises, and you make him such a variable character. He can respond to a given situation in endless ways, and what he says can be interpreted very differently. You've mentioned that you work off a blank slate each time you write a fic, but is there anything essential you hold on to that makes it possible to remain true to your image of him, and for me to remain convinced still?

There’s a core of integrity to him, I think, in any interpretation. Love of his children, and love of…  “justice” sounds like a parody, but he very much wants the world to be right, you know? Not for him, but for other people. He wants to protect other people. He is a fiercely nurturing, fiercely protective man. 

Alongside these things, though, there are other things: the violence he both avoids and embraces, the violence inside him that he keeps such a tight leash on. The self-hatred that has him convinced he is not a very good man. The tendency to narcissism, and the darker demons of his bipolar disorder. His frequent failure to understand how to express the love he feels so deeply and powerfully. He is a good man who fails, and fails, and fails again, and each time he gets up, and that to me is the core of Batman. He will always, always get up and try once more, and for that I will always love him. 

anonymous asked:

You're doing the hatoful boyfriend secret santa???

Yes!! I certainly plan to!! I submitted my information, and I think that’s all you have to do to get in!! I feel bad that I don’t have any art or writing up for people to get an idea of what kind of an artist/writer I am, I just usually find it difficult to motivate myself to create things! But other people’s requests always give me motivation, so I feel I like I will definitely be able to contribute! It took some convincing myself in order to gather the courage and join, because I’m usually very insecure about my artistic abilities and their shortcomings, but I think the idea of a Hatoful Boyfriend Secret Santa is way too good to pass up! I love Hatoful Boyfriend and I’ve always loved the fandom from afar, so I’d really like to be able to contribute and give back to the artists and writers I love in whatever way I can!! I’m very excited!! 💖!!

@halethesourestwolf replied to your post: @halethesourestwolf replied to your post: …

She is! She knows how fragile he is right now, from the stuff with Gordon and everything with prison, and now this, but she still stands there claiming to like him while messing with his head? It’s one thing to mess with other people, but don’t do it to Aaron. That scene convinced me she’s been playing them all from the start and I’ll never believe otherwise now. (Robert’s hair is a great thing to focus on, and Ryan and Danny blowing us away.)

i know! it’s just so gross. that’s what i thought imediately after i watch that scene, that this is just her plan to break them up and to convince robert to be with her and their “child” when he things he’s lost everything that matters to him. but i don’t know, maybe that’s just wishful thinking. just the idea of making her a saint in all this pisses me off so much. i just don’t understand what they are doing because that scene looked so much like a part of her plan to get robert idk. (i know, the thrusday episodes and that bathroom scene give me life. honestly, that’s the reason why i can’t stop watching, they are just so good!!!!)