this is such a great truth


Duncan Hines, traveling salesman and future purveyor of boxed cake mix, considered himself an authority on a great many things: hot coffee, Kentucky country-cured ham and how to locate a tasty restaurant meal, in 1935, for under a dollar and a quarter.

By the 1950s, Hines’ name would be plastered on boxes of cake mix; housewives would turn to his products for consistent quality and superior taste. Newspaper photographs featured Hines clad in a white chef’s apron, hoisting a neatly frosted cake or thoughtfully dipping a spoon into a mixing bowl.

But Duncan Hines wasn’t a chef — in truth, he could barely cook. For most of his career, he had just been a businessman, desperate for a decent meal on the road.

Duncan Hines: The Original Road Warrior Who Shaped Restaurant History

Photos: Courtesy of Clinton Lewis/Kentucky Museum/Western Kentucky University

Christina Ricci has made a name for herself as an actress who can tap into complex roles – and her latest project is no exception. In Amazon’s biographical series Z: The Beginning of Everything, Ricci plays Zelda Fitzgerald, wife of author F. Scott Fitzgerald. Zelda was known for her beauty and high spirits, but she also struggled with mental illness and alcoholism.

Ricci explains a common misconception about Zelda: “that she was this alcoholic crazy woman who ruined F. Scott Fitzgerald’s life, and if not for her he would have had a great life.” It’s an idea that was popularized by writer Ernest Hemingway, but as the actress points out, “He was a huge misogynist.” The truth, she says, is much more complicated.

Forget F. Scott: In ‘Z,’ Christina Ricci Tells Zelda Fitzgerald’s Story

Image: Christina Ricci plays Zelda Fitzgerald in Amazon’s Z. (Nicole Rivelli/Amazon Prime Video)

starks-in-the-north  asked:

So is Mance essentially dead at the hands of Ramsay or is there any reasonable chance he might survive? And since Theon is no longer there and probs dies at Stannis' Battle of Ice (depending on what theories your subscribe to), will we ever see Ramsay in a POV again? Whose would you think?

(TWOW spoilers)

Sadly, I think Ramsay was telling the truth about Mance being in a cage covered in a cloak made of the spearwives’ skin. The latter were seen helping Theon and Jeyne escape, and last we saw Mance, he was surrounded in the Great Hall. I hope he’ll survive for at least a little while longer, though, because I want his shenanigans regarding the crypts to pay off somehow. 

I don’t think Theon will die at the Battle of Ice. The birds being clearly possessed by Bran and Bloodraven were very very excited about getting Theon to the local weirwood. My theory is that Bloodraven wants Theon alive because he can challenge Bloodraven’s rogue protege Euron for the rule of the Iron Islands. And Bran’s a sweet kid more likely to pity Theon than want him dead; Theon described Bran’s face in the Winterfell heart tree as “sad,” and both then and as a bird, Bran keeps calling Theon’s name. So I imagine that Stannis is about to get his mind blown as the tree talks to him, and that Theon will be our POV on his abuser’s downfall. 

The truth, too late

Originally posted by mortonrainey

He’d thought he would starve to death. After the enchantress swept away, sudden autumn leaves fluttering behind her into the night, the curse upon him and all who belonged to him, the shock of the change had been so great he’d nearly lost his mind. Adam couldn’t recall what had happened to all the guests at the ball, the painted, jeweled women who had looked like exotic blooms in the candlelight, the fewer men who danced among them; his servants had seemed to disappear within their new forms, unable to be of any help and he’d wanted to run through the halls but the new body would not cooperate; it was not swift though it was fierce, that he could feel from within, and he suffered with its vitality. He took to his bed when he found he could still be a man in his dreams. He slept as much as he could, rending the fine sheets and cashmere coverlets with his claws until the housemaid noticed and then they were replaced with the sturdier, coarser cloth the villagers had. Once, he would have needed wine, casks of Burgundy, brandy mixed with poppy to make the journey from waking to dream, but the alteration or his reaction to it, his pressing need for the respite a reverie held, was enough to make night of the day, dusk of every dawn. The dreams could be ordinary, simply walking down the hall and sitting at the table, opening the casement, idly turning the pages of the book he had been reading last, or fantastic—he was capable of the most complex dances, played his own compositions on the zither and the concertina, made love to a slender, dark-haired woman he somehow recognized with only his own two hands, skin against skin, a fangless mouth, listening as she cried out his name Adam, sweet Adam, he whispered in his own voice and not the Beast’s growl, si belle.

He never wanted to wake and when he did, he could not find a way to eat. The new body would not obey him and he loathed its appetites. Paws with curved claws were not made for any of the bits of silver he’d used to serve himself before and he could not bring himself to devour a meal the way the flesh prompted him, to tear the loaf apart, the fowl, to slobber through the exquisite vintage Lumiere still poured, now into a pewter tankard better suited for ale but less vulnerable than the crystal glass he would have used before. He turned his face away when they came, his butler ticking, the housekeeper’s plummy voice wet with tears she shed over her child sleeping in a cupboard. He drank a little water, for thirst was a torture all its own, but he had not understand hunger before and he decided to ignore it now. He hoped to die well before the petals fell on the beguiled rose and he did not listen to the voice within him, his own voice reminding him that his death made the curse eternal for his blameless staff. They cajoled him to eat just a bite, hope just a little, and he wanted to dash it all away but he didn’t; he gave them that at least, even if it was the worst he could do.

He woke to find his housekeeper pouring a sugary, milky tea into his mouth, risking her narrow spout against his lethal jaws, spilling into his furred jowls. He could smell the bowl of milk soaked bread beside her and hazily noticed it was a tea-cup with a chipped lip that held the invalid’s meal. He pushed her away but took care not to damage her, began to say something that he knew would become a bellow when she interrupted him, all traces of conciliation and nurturing disappeared, saying,

“Please. If you’ll only try, then we all might…She cursed us but you are, you are killing us with yourself. The rest have given up already but I won’t, I can’t. You’re my Prince but he’s my child,” she said, somehow gesturing with her curved handle to the small tea-cup which somehow held all the impatience of the young boy and his endless curiosity.

He looked at her, remembering the woman she had been, could still be, and how she had always beamed at him as she brushed the sleeves of his blue velvet frock-coat, daring to adjust the silvery white curls of his peruke over his shoulders, how her eyes had been dark with grief when his mother died and how he had once wept into her apron and heard her sing Maman’s song for him.

“For you, yes. I owe you that,” he muttered, hating the sound of the Beast’s basso profundo as much as he hated everything else about his form, his reality.

“That’ll do. I’d rather you do for yourself, but I suppose that’s why she cursed you,” Mrs. Potts replied. There was nothing to say to the truth, so he only opened his mouth, his hateful maw, wider and let her bring him back to life.

“The great university will be divided into grades, admission to which will be through preliminary tests or initiations. Here mankind will be instructed in the most sacred, the most secret, and the most enduring of all Mysteries–Symbolism. Here the initiate will be taught that every visible object, every abstract thought, every emotional reaction is but the symbol of an eternal principle. Here mankind will learn that CHiram (Truth) lies buried in every atom of Kosmos; that every form is a symbol and every symbol the tomb of an eternal verity. Through education–spiritual, mental, moral, and physical–man will learn to release living truths from their lifeless coverings. The perfect government of the earth must be patterned eventually after that divine government by which the universe is ordered. In that day when perfect order is reestablished, with peace universal and good triumphant, men will no longer seek for happiness, for they shall find it welling up within themselves. Dead hopes, dead aspirations, dead virtues shall rise from their graves, and the Spirit of Beauty and Goodness repeatedly slain by ignorant men shall again be the Master of Work. Then shall sages sit upon the seats of the mighty and the gods walk with men.”

~Manly P. Hall

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The first gong – the one situated in the Water Clock Pavilion resounds in the crispy morning air. It doesn’t wake you up, because, to say the truth, you didn’t sleep at all. You focus on sounds outside, and then, there it is: another gong more faraway, coming from the palace gate – probably south one, and before you know there is beautiful harmony, gongs from Jongno belfry joining in, as well as Great South Gate and Great East Gate in city walls.

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Trending 27th

@crackmccraigen How can it be that I love the cartoons you’ve made? Is it because of an underlying message? Is it the character designs? Or is it something that’s rooted in my childhood? Nope it’s because of the heart behind them; these little works of art are a part of you and not just a paycheck.

To tell the truth I didn’t really knew anything about you until a year ago as I had actually given up hope to find a new cartoon that I could stand watching when someone told me about the cancellation of a, in her eyes, great cartoon, I agreed to watch an episode and I was sold. She then told me about your previous cartoons and I remembered that I had watched them over and over again and always had found something new in the episodes that I had missed the last time I saw it.

For this I want to thank you and tell you that no matter what some execs say. I, who am almost as young as you are, love your cartoons and want them to go on as long as you want them to go on.

As a wise man once said: “All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.” And that man was Walt Disney.

In my version of a perfect world next time you get called to a meeting with the execs, they green-light the new cartoon you’re working on and gives you a lot of feedback but in the end just as you’re about to leave one of them says this: “Last time you asked for a third and last season for that Wander over Yonder show and we have decided that it’s not such a bad idea after all and we wonder if you’re ready to do that now.”

Yes I know I’m a dreamer but where would we be without dreams?

sanvers happier au where maggie sees alex after a month from their break up do to the Emily Drama™

au where maggie has been keeping truths from alex even when they’ve tried to move on and its just not working

alex is playing the field a little, meets a nice girl that tells her its okay if shes the rebound but alex deserves to smile and feel like enough and be treated Better even tho alex says she thinks maggie treated her great 

maggie seeing them playing pool together, and she sees alex laughing the same laugh she used to make spill from alexs lips

and maggies scared because,,, no one’s gonna love alex the way she does but god what if shes happier

i know that there’s others that deserve you but my darling i am still in love with you!!!!!

anonymous asked:

Autumn: *banging a two frying pans together* I!!! AM!!! SO!!!! GREAT!!!!!!!!! | Winter, shouting back: YOUR. GOING. TO GIVE. ME. A. MIGRAINE!!!!!! | Summer, eye twitching: please, Autumn, stop. | Autumn: NEVERRRRRRRR *continues chanting*

thats like the super over-the-top version of their relationship with each other. and yet. theres still some truth to it

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.