what an a dress choice

Leatherworking with gremble: the other Anders bag

How2Andersbag, part 2! This is for the square-ish bag he wears on his belt, which I think kinda looks like a granny purse, but it’s a useful size for carrying cellphone+wallet, and a useful technique to know because it’s so ubiquitous. I think everyone in the DA2 crew has at least one bag constructed this way, adjusting the colors/proportions as necessary.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I know I'm odd one out but I absolutely love Cait's dress (in fact I "Pinned" it a few weeks ago!) However, what I love more about her choice of dress is that Cait is not a run-of-the-mill actress. She doesnt dress to please the masses & win "best dressed", she dresses in stuff she loves, stuff she finds fun, pretty, dramatic etc. She's def no fashion victim like most of Hollywood. I admire her so very much for edginess w fashion, it says a great deal about personality & makes me love her more.

same!! I didn’t like the dress tonight but she made a statement, like she usually does, with her outfits and I can definitely admire that. I couldn’t wear like 90% of the stuff she wears and 90% of the time she looks incredible in the clothes. I’ll say it till I die: the woman could wear a paper bag and look amazing. I love, LOVE her makeup, hair and jewelry from tonight. And the top half of the dress has definitely grown on me, I will say that. 

ok but the real question: to suit or not to suit for prom

My hijab is empowering because it is my choice. I choose to fulfill this deeply personal religious obligation, and that choice is empowering. I don’t shame other women for the way that they dress, nor do I think I am above them. I choose what parts to reveal of myself. I choose to dress in a way that is an automatic indicator of my American Muslim identity, which empowers me with a voice and platform to educate others. Despite popular opinion, no one forced me or oppressed me into dressing the way I dress. My choice, my body. That is what drives the feminist in me.

One of the most genius characters David Lynch has ever cooked up is The Cowboy from Mulholland Drive. What I like about him so much wasn’t apparent to me until I rewatched the film for what had to be the fourth or fifth time recently, because I noticed that his costuming is actually a very early 21st century peacoat dyed and distressed to slightly resemble leather. At some point I’ll sit my butt down and write something cohesive about how Mullholand Drive embodies postmodern pastiche like nothing else I’ve seen, but taking the cowboy here: he is a reference without a referent, an empty indicator of something which is assumed to be identifiable or locatable but which, in reality, evades all attempts to position him in a place or time. By this I mean that The Cowboy is like all other cinematic cowboys, in that rather than embodying something real about the conceptual fiction we call “the Old West”, the cowboy is always a cowboy of his cinema’s specific moment and values–whether that’s midcentury Americana, cold-war anxiety, 70s cyncisim, etc. This operation has been noted again and again throughout the history of the Western as a genre, but has done little to displace the tempting fiction that there is ever a cowboy that existed outside of his mediation through the film genre. Our understanding of what a cowboy is is inseperable from the myth, but over time, this myth is depleted–the cowboy as trope is made and re-made, the reference references all other filmic cowboys as well as the “original” (also inherently absent) cowboy. Lynch’s cowboy arrives as a mysterious figure entrenched in what appears to be a Hollywood conspiracy, alongside the businessmen, directors, and other symols of male egotism that pepper these scenes of the film. While these tropic figures seem to be played relatively straight, however, The Cowboy is both absurd and impossible to decipher. I don’t think it’s an accident that it took me four viewings (none of these were on a laptop, all were either in a theatre or at least a theatre-like setting) to notice the anachronistic nature of The Cowboy’s clothing. What can we make of this choice?  It’s my belief that  a man dressed in an accurate (i.e., accurate to earlier Hollywood depictions) cowboy costume would have been legible as “in diguise” (i.e., a member of the conspiracy dressed as a cowboy), this cowboy is a cowboy, and nothing but a cowboy. It’s with this character that I think Lynch really blows open the difference between costume and disguise; one is artifice emodied, the other implies that there is a “true” meaning or self that can be uncovered, but which is hidden. The filmic cowboy of the early 2000s is all costume–literally, the costume “of his time,”— because Lynch’s film is concerned not with American idealism or other tensions that were expressed (allegorically or metaphorically) in earlier Westerns, but with reflexively revealing the formation of myths central to American cinema, myths which form core of what Hollywood film is and does and how we understand it. So when I say that The Cowboy is a reference without a referent, I mean that the thing being referred to is the absence of a “real” cowboy–a folding reference into the tissue of Hollywood that has no center. It’s pretty cool, mostly because while The Cowboy seems like a massive red herring, it’s also impossible for me to imagine Mulholland Drive being complete without him. 


ASC with Mamamoo


#god this makes me imagine ash like  #blushing when he puts on the capris  #crossing his ankles in front of each other  #“is… is it too much skin…?”  #hau: no dud e you look fi–  #mallow: SHOW US YOUR TITS

look. look. if you expected me to see these quality tags on this post and not attempt to doodle something then idk what to tell you also i am adoring ash’s stupid little outfit it’s so different in so many ways from his previous incarnations and i wanna poke him

I feel like “the dress” could be used as a LGBTQ+ pride symbol
Think about it

You don’t choose how you see the dress; you don’t choose your sexual orientation

People fight over it even though arguing isn’t going to change how anyone else sees something

You don’t choose to like boys

You don’t choose to like girls

You don’t choose to not be sexually attracted to anybody

You don’t choose your gender

You don’t choose to see white and gold

You don’t choose to see black and blue

Dear Modern Western Feminism,

Modesty and lack of sexuality is NOT oppression. Just because I am not as naked as you want me to be or not practicing my ‘sexual expression’, doesn’t mean I’m not a feminist.

  • Stop insisting that I am oppressed, abused, or assuming that there is something wrong with me. 
  • Stop the gross exaggeration (almost outright lies) about women in the Middle East.
  • Stop trying to fix me in the name of your so called “liberation”. There is nothing wrong with me. 
  • Stop trying to exclude covered women from feminism. Part of feminism is the freedom to dress as I want, even if it means covering more than showing.
  • Stop disrespecting my religion and my beliefs. They are mine. I am not asking you to follow them. I am asking you to respect them. 
  • Stop discrediting my choices. I am not forced to do what I do and dress as I dress. My choices are mine. 

In all honesty, thus far in my life as a Muslim woman, western feminism has done nothing but complicate my life, force me to correct more and more misconceptions, and suffer more discrimination (some severe and from other women).

Just because my choice of clothing and how much skin I show isn’t as revealing as yours and I wholeheartedly believe in religion, that does NOT mean I need saving. You can’t liberate the free. 

How to recognize an INFJ

(or maybe just how to recognize me. my blog, can’t help it)

1) If meeting for the first time, will either come across as warm, expressive, and socially graced–or completely mute and aloof. And can flip from one to another.

Social interaction is an on off switch. Depending on how well Fe is developed, INFJ’s can make small talk, laugh at the right moments, continue conversations, network without much problem. (for me the lych-pin is whether or not I want you to like me. If it’s an interview or job fair, people think I’m extroverted.) On the flip side, INFJ’s are more comfortable being quiet and out of the limelight. Polite and nice, probably, but everything said will be filtered because the infj wouldn’t know you well enough to be comfortable saying what he or she is actually thinking. (Enough childhood experiences being called weird). I don’t like talking about important/informational things unless I think it all through in my head first, which means I don’t talk often and when I do, it’s concise. <–this is a pretty good tip-off.

2) INFJ’s love figurative language. 

Will only use when comfortable, but INFJ’s can make the randomest yet relevant metaphors

3) Facially expressive.

I laugh with my whole face, eyes curved, dimples showing. I frown with  my whole face–eyebrows arched, chin out, lips pouting. When I’m frustrated, I’ll make frustrated sounds.

4) Likes Harmony.

INFJ’s like harmony. This means that they will try their best to be tactful, but will respond aversely to lack of tact. Antagonistic to people who cause conflict for no apparent/selfish reason. (it really bothers me when people yell and give ultimatums as a form of solving problems. Yelling and threatening are obviously not solutions, they just make everyone mad…whats the point!)

5) Most things (dress, possessions, color choices…etc) will be pretty well thought out.

Meaning, my phone case and my coat and the color of my headphones are all deliberate choices. I will know 1) how this plays into my image and 2) what this choice means to me. This is reciprocal meaning that I think that people also think that much into their choices (and am surprised when thats not true).

6) Asks questions to try to get people to talk about themselves but doesn’t offer the same information

A stupid habit, really. But I always feel self-conscious talking about myself, but I ask questions to get to know people/try to continue the conversation. People who are genuinely interested and ask good, probing, personal questions get brownie points.

7) Passive agressive as fuck when angry.

Enough said.

That’s all for now. I may add to this list if people suggest good ones/if i think of more. Going to bed!


So, i wrote a thing. And then when I went to post it is uploaded the wrong file so this is the correct and final version … which I might continue but that all depends on my muse.

Anyway, it’s a Enchanted Forest AU. There’s no curse but don’t look for a reason why there was no curse. This is mostly angst mixed with fluff and sexy times. Definitely rated M. Basically my muse wanted to re-imagine what kind of princess Emma would be if she grew up in the Enchanted Forest and wanted to rebel against her parents.

You can also read it on fanfiction.net or AO3. I hope you enjoy! 

It was the middle of the afternoon and the late autumn wind threatened to blow her hood back and expose her identity to anyone that took notice of her. She gripped the rough fabric and held it tightly at her neck, lowering her head as she darted through the crowds. The anticipation of getting to the ship tingled throughout her body and when she finally spotted the tall masts her heart leapt in a way that she would never admit to anyone, least of all him.

As she approached the ship she spotted the First Mate of The Jolly Roger and pulled back her cloak just slightly so he could recognize her. He tilted his head as an invitation to come aboard and ushered her towards the entrance to the Captain’s quarters.

“Good to see you, Mr. Smee,” she said.

“Always an honor, Princess,” he replied with a smile.

“Any idea how long you’ll be in port this time?” she asked.

“That’s a question for the captain, milady,” he replied.

Emma smiled sweetly to hide her disappointment. A question for the captain, indeed. One that she most certainly couldn’t ask. She had already kept him waiting two days, if she let on that she had any interest in him staying in port for a considerable length of time then she would lose any upper hand that she had gained by her delay.

She had to come to him. They both knew that. It would be far too dangerous for him to sneak into her parent’s castle, even if it were under the cover of night.  Secrecy was a necessity of their relationship but it didn’t make her hate it any less that she had to be the one to seek him out. She was thinking as much as she descended the small but steep staircase into his quarters and heard the door above her be shut and locked. She turned to find Captain Killian Jones – Captain Hook as he was better known – lounging in a chair with his feet propped on the table in front of him.

“I was starting to wonder if my raven got lost on its way to find you,” he said.

“I received it,” she replied coolly. ”You think I have nothing to do than wait for you to grace our docks?”

“Lucky you found the time today,” he said. “Our stores are replenished and we set sail in the morning.”

A pang of … what was it? Regret? Anger? Hurt?  Whatever it was it took ahold of her and her own heart betrayed her. The feeling must have been plain to see on her face because the pirate was suddenly on his feet and the carefree tone in his voice was replaced by one of concern.

“We have all day, Emma,” he said as he held out his hand to her. “Come here, love.”

Keep reading

DaeHyun Scenario: Gay No More.

Word Count : 1313 :)

Genre :  Mention of sex, domination, best friend.

Note: I hooooope you guys like it!  And if you want to help me or gimme some tips or even say if you like it, just go on my ask, okay?

Originally posted by junhnq

“Aish, are 11:54 at night, Y/N” Daehyun whimpered with his serious voice cracking as I open the front door of my house to him. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! I know!” I cut, locking the door and covering the mouth of the older, avoiding my father down the stairs with a baseball bat thinking it is a thief who broke into our house in the night. “But it’s been two hours Dae. In addition, I really need my super-best-friend.”

I led the dress creature with pajamas and a jacket to my room, walking purposefully slower when passing through my father’s door and coming back running toward my room and locking us there.

Keep reading

Imagine taking John, Paul, and George with you to shop for a wedding dress. You’re marrying Ringo Starr in a couple months, so of course his band mates insist on helping you find the perfect dress.
“How bout this?” Paul calls, gesturing to an extravagant lace dress with a beautiful train. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, an example of Paul’s taste for the finer things in life. Before you can answer, however, John suddenly yawns loudly next to you.
“Bo-oring! Jesus, Macca, it’s Y/N, not the bloody Queen! She needs something her grandmother won’t be asking to borrow anytime soon.” Behind you all, George giggles quietly in the corner of the room, stuffing his face with the Jordan almonds put on display for visitors.
“Fuck off, John,” Paul scoffs playfully. “I don’t see you getting married to Ringo. C’mon, Y/N- Ringo’s jaw’ll hit the floor.” To be honest, it’s a gorgeous dress, but it’s the price tag that turns you off.
“Mm, sorry Paulie,” you cringe, tugging the tag away and out of site. “That’s a touch put of the bridal budget, but thanks for trying.” You feel a tugging at your sleeve, and turn to see John nearly jumping with excitement.
“Alright, kiddies, my turn! C’mon- this’ll make Ritchie’s eyes pop out of his head,” he giggles mischievously, dragging you across the bridal shop to examine his dress choice. What John picks is drastically simpler than Paul’s selection, and a good deal cheaper, but…
“It’s a bit… low cut, don’t you think?” You wonder aloud, eyeing the plunging v-neck neckline and nearly backless cut. John scoffs, patting Paul’s back sharply.
“Nonsense! It’s your wedding! What better time is there to give Rings a little taste of what he’s marrying?” Paul slaps his forehead with his palm and sighs heavily.
“What? It’s better than your million dollar grandma dress, McCartney!” John bristles, poking Paul in the chest. Paul frowns deeply, jabbing a long finger into John’s belly.
“At least you can look at it and think ‘bride,’ as opposed to the impression of ‘street walker’ I get with this one!” he argues, nearly nose to nose with the rhythm guitarist. As the pair continues to argue, you feel a light tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you’re met with a passive and rather-stuffed George, still popping almonds into his mouth as he gestures you to his choice of dress. What George picks is well… perfect. It’s simple with a touch of elegance, and yet is perfectly affordable and complimentary to your personality. You gasp loudly, interrupting John and Paul from their moronic argument.
“This is it!” you squeal, hugging George’s arm tightly. “Oh, Geo; this is the perfect dress! You’re so fantastic- Ritchie’s gonna love it,” you sigh happily, placing a kiss to George’s bright red cheek. Paul and John only stare at you and George wide eyed as you flag down an employee to help you with the dress, eagerly anticipating your future with the adorable drummer.


Eleanor in  R E D, wearing the colors of the enemy. 

for @notaninternetkiller