wodge

Ten reasons that you cannot go up to the castle

1. It is usually much better to go up to the castle tomorrow. Today is too soon. The weather forecast is always better tomorrow and besides, the icecream van is down at the village for maintenance today but it may be back up on the castle road tomorrow.
2. Because by the time we have got up to the ridge, doubled-back along the sheep-path, pulled the nail out of the tyre and patched it, sat through the falling and rising of the mist and clambered over the rocks to the cliff edge to get mobile signal so that we can look up the meaning of that signpost, it will be time to come back home again in any case, with nothing seen and nothing done.
3. Because it is on hire for a very special private party, and when you see the security you will realise that it is entirely better not to bother them.
4. Because you know that you get nervous around castles, and when you get nervous you deal with it by oversharing, and you are far from the only person who does this; this being why the castle is all full-up with secrets, and if it gets any more they will flow out over the battlements and come down upon the valley like a pyroclastic flow, and Heaven help us all.
5. Because you know as well as I that time is a little cockeyed up there, and that people who go up tend to come down the Thursday before and have to live with themselves in the meantime for up to a week; and did you come back down last Thursday? You did not.
6. Because the nights are drawing in and it is cold up there.
7. Because didn’t you read in the paper? The rabbits have been digging under the castle road and the whole thing is likely to slide down the hillside unless it can be reinforced. The council are coming to have a look next week. Ain’t nobody allowed up there until then.
8. Because the castle tends to get attached, poor thing. If you go up there and maybe stroke it a bit or Heaven forbid give it a sandwich it is likely to follow you all the way back down. And do you know what happened the last time the castle came down to the town? Chaos. It has no idea how big it is now, or that it cannot fit down the main street.
9. Because I know it looks as if there is a castle on the ridge. But this is really an illusion. A fascinating one, though, to be sure. You see, the car park at the bottom of the cliff heats up in the afternoon sun and produces a great wodge of rising hot air, creating a mirage in which the rear wall of the cannery is projected upside-down onto the hillside at several times the size. Those turrets are in fact the industrial bins out the back. And I’m sure you can see that those are not giants at all, merely factory workers sneaking out for a smoke by.
10. Because it is asleep at last, poor thing, and let’s not wake it.

Post-Its Are Romantic

Authors Note: So here is my first attempt at Bucky fanfiction. No pressure… Sweet and fluffy. And I would be lying if I said that this is not based off of myself. (Because post-its are the most magical inventions ever and I love them because I am an anxious nerd and they are super low-pressure)
So, how’d I do?

——-


You leave post-its everywhere.

[Door knob sticks. Turn left and pull hard.] on your bedroom door.
[Garbage comes Sunday. Trash out Saturday night.] over the garbage can and by the back door.
[Wash face. Take iron supplement.] on the bathroom mirror.

The walls of your bedroom were covered in post-its with ideas for stories, doodles, inspirational quotes and sigils for serenity, energy and deep sleep.
The first day Bucky met you, you were standing on a small stool with a pen and a wodge of post-its, scribbling away and slapping them up on the wall. Your door was open, and you sensed him pause in the hall outside. Hopping down off the stool, you walked over and stuck out her hand.
“And you are…”
“Bucky.”
“Cool name. Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks.”
“Quick warning, if you see sticky notes, they are mine. I tend to forget things so I leave them everywhere. Alzheimer’s runs in my family.”
“Okay…”
“Feel free to add your own, by the way. Here.” You handed him a full pack from your pocket and turned back to the wall of post its. “Cool arm by the way.”
Bucky just kind of stared at you for a minute and continued on to the lounge, flipping the post-its from hand to hand.
His first one went on the fridge later that week.

[Buy plums please?]

The next day, there was a reply:

[Aye, aye, Sergeant!]

and a bag of fresh plums in the crisper. Bucky cracked a small smile, bit into a plum and scribbled away.

[Sergeants are Army not Navy. Who taught you ranks?]
[Clearly not you, Mr. Know-It-All.]

You started writing him notes about the weather the next week.

[Take an umbrella. It will rain today.]
[Chilly tomorrow- jacket weather probably.]

Bucky started saving the post-its. You were sassy and funny and liked to draw things for him. Like the time Natasha got sick of Clint skulking around in the rafters and sliced one of his anchor cables. The next day, there was a post-it, sticking to his door, with a picture of a grumpy stick-figure Hawkeye hanging upside down with a stick Black Widow rolling on the ground laughing. Or the time Tony ate the last piece of blueberry pie and Bruce almost Hulked out, you drew a bearded Tony with a round belly and blue smudges on his mouth and hands; the Hulk towering behind him with fists raised. That one made it into his arm maintenance tool box. He also liked the fact that someone else had trouble remembering things just like he did. It made him feel less isolated.

As time went on, the post-its grew flirtier and flirtier, and the other Avengers started to notice more and more. So you and Bucky started hiding them, making it into an elaborate game. You hid them in cabinets, behind the cushions on the couch, even in Bucky’s favorite cereal box. Almost a year after you and Bucky first met, the once innocent messages had gotten downright obscene.

[You should think about cutting your hair; it’s easier to see your smile. And your smile makes me think… fun things.]
[I really appreciate that sweater you wore the other day. I dreamed about it all night.]
[Leather or lace for the party tonight, do you think?]
[Oh hell, doll. Please tell me I get to see it, whatever you pick.]
[Maybe… In your dreams.]
[You do not play fair.]
[I never did.]
[That’s the best part about you.]
[Sergeant, are you trying to flatter me?]
[Call me Sergeant more. It feels good. And, I might be flattering, is it working?]
[Why don’t you try and find out… Sergeant?]
[I would, but that wouldn’t be exactly gentlemanly.]
[Gentlemanliness has its’ place, but so do other things. Want to try something new?]

You tore the tower apart looking for the reply to your latest post-it. You may have gone a little overboard in hindsight, and now you felt a little guilty for pushing him. You searched everywhere: behind the toilet tank, in the basement chest freezer, even in the fuse box. Natasha found you digging through Tony’s DVD collection later that day.

“You know that there is a package outside your door right?”
The next second, Nat was staring at your back as you left a pile of DVD’s on the floor and sprinted to the elevators. She left the lounge right after because she sure as hell wasn’t cleaning up that mess.
When you got to your door, there was a small brown box outside her door.

“FRIDAY, this isn’t Tony’s idea of a joke is it?”
“The package is not from Mr. Stark.”
“So no glitter bombs. Good. That was an April Fools to remember. Who is it from?”
“The deliverer asked me not to tell you who it was from.”
“Right. Thanks, FRIDAY.”

You took the box into your room and sat on the bed as you pulled the flaps open. On top of about forty new pads of sticky notes, and a new pack of colored pencils, was a note.

[Could we maybe start with gentleman and go from there? It’s not so bad, you know.]

You grinned and dumped the box on your bed. On the bottom was taped a post it with a rough sketch of Bucky, but with short hair. A blush was drawn on his cartoony cheeks and he held a bunch of flowers. Under the picture was written:

[Check the door.]

You opened the door to your room, and there was the real Bucky, short hair and all, with a bouquet in his hands.
“Did you see the post-its?”
“I did! Thank you! And the picture of you was so cute.”
“Didn’t you see the other one under it?”
“Oops, I didn’t. Hang on.”
Peeling the first note off carefully, you read the second post-it.

[I think I love you.]

You looked up at him and then paused.
“Can I hug you?”
Bucky just opened his arms and you ran into them, the bouquet hitting you in the back of the head, as he hugged you tightly to him.
“I think I love you too, Bucky.” You mumbled into his chest. He grinned so widely, his face hurt, and he kissed the top of your head.
“So my flattering really did work.”
“Oh, shut up and kiss me properly, you idiot.”
“With pleasure.”

I was here. Really here.

Edinburgh sloped up behind me, to the glowering heights of Edinburgh Castle, and down before me, to the gracious majesty of Holyrood Palace at the foot of the city. 

The last time I had stood by this fountain, Bonnie Prince Charlie had been addressing the gathered citizenry of Edinburgh, inspiring them with the sight of his royal presence. He had bounded exuberantly from the rim to the carved center finial of the fountain, one foot in the basin, clinging to one of the spouting heads for support, shouting “On to England!” The crowd had roared, pleased at this show of youthful high spirits and athletic prowess. I would myself have been more impressed had I not noticed that the water in the fountain had been turned off in anticipation of the gesture.

I wondered where Charlie was now. He had gone back to Italy after Culloden, I supposed, there to live whatever life was possible for royalty in permanent exile. What he was doing, I neither knew nor cared. He had passed from the pages of history, and from my life as well, leaving wreck and ruin in his wake. It remained to be seen what might be salvaged now. 

I was very hungry; I had had nothing to eat since a hasty breakfast of rough parritch and boiled mutton, made soon after dawn at a posthouse in Dundaff. I had one last sandwich remaining in my pocket, but had been reluctant to eat it in the coach, under the curious gaze of my fellow travelers. 

I pulled it out and carefully unwrapped it. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread, it was considerably the worse for wear, with the purple stains of the jelly seeping through the limp bread, and the whole thing mashed into a flattened wodge. It was delicious. 

I ate it carefully, savoring the rich, oily taste of the peanut butter. How many mornings had I slathered peanut butter on bread, making sandwiches for Brianna’s school lunches? Firmly suppressing the thought, I examined the passersby for distraction. They did look somewhat different from their modern equivalents; both men and women tended to be shorter, and the signs of poor nutrition were evident. Still, there was an overwhelming familiarity to them— these were people I knew, Scots and English for the most part, and hearing the rich burring babble of voices in the street, after so many years of the flat nasal tones of Boston, I had quite an extraordinary feeling of coming home. 

I swallowed the last rich, sweet bite of my old life, and crumpled the wrapper in my hand. I glanced around, but no one was looking in my direction. I opened my hand, and let the bit of plastic film fall surreptitiously to the ground. Wadded up, it rolled a few inches on the cobbles, crinkling and unfolding itself as though alive. The light wind caught it, and the small transparent sheet took sudden wing, scudding over the gray stones like a leaf. 

The draft of a set of passing wheels sucked it under a drayman’s cart; it winked once with reflected light, and was gone, disappearing without notice from the passersby. I wondered whether my own anachronistic presence would cause as little harm. 

“You are dithering, Beauchamp,” I said to myself. “Time to get on.” I took a deep breath and stood up. 

“Excuse me,” I said, catching the sleeve of a passing baker’s boy. “I’m looking for a printer— a Mr. Malcolm. Alexander Malcolm.” A feeling of mingled dread and excitement gurgled through my middle. What if there was no printshop run by Alexander Malcolm in Edinburgh? 

There was, though; the boy’s face screwed up in thought and then relaxed. 

“Oh, aye, mum— just down the way and to your left. Carfax Close.” And hitching his loaves up under his arm with a nod, he plunged back into the crowded street.

- Voyager

What if…..

I was very hungry; I had had nothing to eat since a hasty breakfast of rough parritch and boiled mutton, made soon after dawn at a posthouse in Dundaff. I had one last sandwich remaining in my pocket, but had been reluctant to eat it in the coach, under the curious gaze of my fellow travelers.

I pulled it out and carefully unwrapped it. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread, it was considerably the worse for wear, with the purple stains of the jelly seeping through the limp bread, and the whole thing mashed into a flattened wodge. It was delicious.

I swallowed the last rich, sweet bite of my old life, and crumpled the wrapper in my hand. I glanced around, but no one was looking in my direction. I opened my hand, and let the bit of plastic film fall surreptitiously to the ground. Wadded up, it rolled a few inches on the cobbles, crinkling and unfolding itself as though alive. The light wind caught it, and the small transparent sheet took sudden wing, scudding over the gray stones like a leaf.

The draft of a set of passing wheels sucked it under a drayman’s cart; it winked once with reflected light, and was gone, disappearing without notice from the passersby. I wondered whether my own anachronistic presence would cause as little harm.

-Voyager


Jamie notices the plastic wrap? 🤔

Thursday is probably the last time I’ll ever go to my beloved school again, which I’ve been at for ages. It’s seen me through years 7-13, and the past two years have definitely been the toughest (which I was in no way prepared for.) So, with that in mind, I thought I would offer some sixth form survival tips for any year 11s about to embark on the hardest but possibly best years that school has to offer.

1. BE PREPARED FOR SO MUCH MORE WORK
You’ve probably heard a sixth former say ‘GCSEs are easy’, to which you thought they were lying. They weren’t. The jump from GCSEs to A levels is scary. I wasn’t prepared for how hard it would get, so it was a huge shock to me when I did really badly in class tests after only revising for half a day beforehand. Unfortunately, this method doesn’t work at A level.

2. START WORK EARLY
Work hard throughout the year, not just before tests or at the Easter holidays. Revision for exams becomes so much easier if you have a pre-existing set of revision notes, and if you’re good at the basics, which leaves more time to focus on stuff you find challenging.

3. KNOW YOUR LIMITS
If you find a subject way too difficult after a few weeks, see if you can drop it or swap it. My school gave you a month to settle in and change subjects around before you had to stick with what you chose. I swapped physics for psychology three days before the deadline, and it’s the best decision I made. Trust your instincts, if you think you can’t cope in a subject, do something about it!

4. FILE STUFF PROPERLY AND TREAT YOUR FOLDERS WELL
It’s common sense- if it’s filed then you can easily find it without looking through a wodge of loose pages, and if your folder is still intact at the end of the year, it’s also easier to use. Trust me, you will not buy a new folder three weeks before study leave. So try not to break it- mine have a tendency to fall from heights which break the rings, so finding information took much longer because broken folders require more effort to move papers.

5. HAVE A LIFE
Don’t lock yourself up studying for two years, but don’t party so hard that you never do homework. A good work/life balance is crucial, so try to find one that works for you ASAP.

6. USE YOUR FREES
Know where the library is. Go to the library in your frees. Do work. You can theoretically do all your homework in frees, leaving the evenings clear. I’m not suggesting you do that, but certainly use some frees for studying.

7. DO WORK
If you do the work you’re set, teachers will like you. So when you have a problem, they’ll be much more happy to explain something to you than if they think you have zero interest in the class. Being liked by teachers is never a bad thing. You’re also much more likely to get away with talking, being late or legitimately forgetting a piece of work if they like and trust you.

8. USE YOUR STAFF SUPPORT NETWORK IF YOU NEED IT
Your form tutor is a good place to start if you have a problem. My mental health was in the gutter in year 12 and I never told anyone, so my grades could have been better. (Results day was a miracle, I thought I would have Cs at most) In year 13 I had a few family problems, accidentally told my tutor, and she helped a lot by telling my teachers to go easy on me for a while. She gave me a ton of help and advice, and then I felt I could take other problems to her. Long story short: I doubt I would have got through year 13 without her. I only wish I had started talking to her in year 12, because she is an absolute lifesaver. If you can’t go to your form tutor, find another staff member you trust. (Another reason to get on their good side academically)

9. START THINKING ABOUT UNI
This time next year you’ll be writing a personal statement to apply to uni with. Go to open days. Work out what you want to do, and if you even want to go to uni. Talk to current students. Read prospectuses, go to a ucas convention if possible, and do research.

I hope these tips helped! Feel free to ask me anything, and good luck to everyone starting sixth form next month!!! (Also good luck with your gcse results!) xx

  • Ardyn: When next we meet, it will be across the sea~!
  • Ravus: *cough* ...Vesperpool.
  • Ardyn: Vesperpool?
  • Ravus: Vesperpool.
  • Ardyn: ...Are you sure?
  • Ravus: Yes, I'm sure, you have like, a whole THING there before anyone even goes to Altissia.
  • Ardyn: I was pretty sure it was across the sea.
  • Ravus: There's an entire chapter there and everything. It's in the script.
  • Ardyn: Was it in the script before or after they wodged in a ridiculous side quest spurred by totally unrealistic character behavior and no satisfactory plot explanation only to be able to sell some DLC and also cup noodle?
  • Ravus: What do YOU think?
  • Ardyn: Nobody caught it?
  • Ravus: Apparently.
  • Ardyn: So I just got stuck with a line that makes no sense?
  • Ravus: Not the first or last time.
  • Ardyn: Jesus fuck me.
  • Ravus: Please, no.
  • Ardyn: In that case! I was... speaking specifically to Gladiolus. I will next meet him. *tries again* Across the sea! The rest of you idiots I will meet at the-- where'd they go?
  • Ravus: They drove off. Five minutes ago.
  • Ardyn: What? How did--
  • Ravus: Right through that enormous plot hole.
  • Ardyn: Hell, they could have taken us with them. We could all go to five guys or something.
  • Ravus: There'd be six of us.
  • Ardyn: Obviously, I would have to kill someone off first.
  • Ravus: Maybe start with whoever wrote this script.
In your next letter I wish you’d say

“You kept these?” Andrew asked, an unnecessary question she might have said as he was holding the letters he’d sent her during the War in his hand, a sort of epistolary wodge of cheap paper liberally daubed with ink, his angular writing and the censor’s stamp. There were a few more in front of him where she had thought he had the Sunday paper and she wondered what he had been looking for to have found them. He wasn’t smiling; she would tread lightly.

“Of course I did. What else would I have done?” She kept the book open on her lap but made no pretense of reading it. It was something Harriet had sent and while she hadn’t gotten deeply engrossed in it yet, she could feel the pull. She’d not waste her first reading when Andrew clearly needed to talk.

“Chucked them when I chucked you?” he retorted, then slapped his free hand down on the table. “Damn it all, that was cruel, I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It was unkind, but more to you than me. D’you truly think I would have thrown out your letters?” she replied, keeping her tone even. She’d been heart-broken once and as bitter as a Stewart could be, but it seemed an eon ago, especially as they sat in their dressing gowns in their small sitting room, the day waiting for them outside, the clutter of her poor housekeeping curiously cozy.

“Yes, I suppose so. They weren’t much,” he said. Oh what a dear, darling fool he was and ever would be! He was hers though and she his and she’d her own fair share of foolishness, now and in the past. It hadn’t been in their vows, in folly and in wisdom, but it could have been. Should have.

“They were. To me,” she replied simply. He rubbed the back of his neck and blinked at her, then glanced at the page in front of him.

“Every other word is blacked out. And they’re sadly lacking in romance or any poetry,” he said. He set a great store by such things and she just didn’t, just as he’d never any satisfaction in repairing anything, from an electric tea-kettle to an engine block. She’d learned how to repair more than gears lately.

“They were poetry enough for me. The missing words made the ones that were left mean more. And sometimes, I let myself imagine what you could have written, what was hidden. A mystery, you know,” she explained. She smiled, not her cheering-up grin, but softly, with the tenderness she found it easier to share at night, when she lay in his arms.

“You’ve always liked mysteries,” he said, setting all the letters down.

“Yes, that’s true,” she answered.

“Not poetry though, you never seemed to care for it before,” he said. Nearly all the venom and self-loathing had leached from his voice and she relaxed. The book Harriet sent would keep. The day seemed brighter already, though the clouds had not shifted and the pane was spattered with the beginning of rain.

“I’m a selfish beast. I only like it when it is addressed to me, not purely a recitation. I’ve a hankering to be a muse, I suppose,” she said, allowing him the truth. He laughed.

“My muse. You had to work too hard before, with these letters. I’ll write you a proper sonnet now I know it’s what you want,” he declared. He had been quite good about keeping the promises he’d made after they reunited and she imagined it would not only be one sonnet but a week’s worth or a month’s, all shared after midnight, Andrew’s voice serious in the darkness. She shivered with the pleasure of it now and would then too.

“In the meantime, perhaps you might make a fresh pot of tea for us both? For inspiration…and because my cup has gone quite cold,” she said. He rose to go to the kitchen, but stopped to kiss her, to stroke her cheek gently.

“Yes, my muse. Your wish,” he began and she interjected, unable to resist, before he could finish is my command.

“Is for a cup of tea. And don’t forget the tea-cozy!”

anonymous asked:

Isn't DG referring back to Voyager - a peanut butter and jelly sandwich is one of the few modern things she brings through the stones - she eats it in Edinburgh just before she goes to find Jamie in the printshop?

I had one last sandwich remaining in my pocket, but had been reluctant to eat it in the coach, under the curious gaze of my fellow travelers.

I pulled it out and carefully unwrapped it. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread, it was considerably the worse for wear, with the purple stains of the jelly seeping through the limp bread, and the whole thing mashed into a flattened wodge. It was delicious.

I ate it carefully, savoring the rich, oily taste of the peanut butter. How many mornings had I slathered peanut butter on bread, making sandwiches for Brianna’s school lunches? Firmly suppressing the thought, I examined the passersby for distraction. They did look somewhat different from their modern equivalents; both men and women tended to be shorter, and the signs of poor nutrition were evident. Still, there was an overwhelming familiarity to them—these were people I knew, Scots and English for the most part, and hearing the rich burring babble of voices in the street, after so many years of the flat nasal tones of Boston, I had quite an extraordinary feeling of coming home.

I swallowed the last rich, sweet bite of my old life, and crumpled the wrapper in my hand. I glanced around, but no one was looking in my direction. I opened my hand, and let the bit of plastic film fall surreptitiously to the ground. Wadded up, it rolled a few inches on the cobbles, crinkling and unfolding itself as though alive. The light wind caught it, and the small transparent sheet took sudden wing, scudding over the gray stones like a leaf.

The draft of a set of passing wheels sucked it under a drayman’s cart; it winked once with reflected light, and was gone, disappearing without notice from the passersby. I wondered whether my own anachronistic presence would cause as little harm.

Bound By Chains

Pairing: Eric/OC *Sarah*
Fandom: Divergent
Rating: M - This story portrays sensitive subjects with multiple trigger warnings. Read on with caution.

She’s bound to a monster. And he has personality issues.

A/N: Okay, so this was a long time coming. My work is on other sites and I think it’s about time I shared in the world of Tumblr. Enjoy :) 

As of 16th April ‘17, this story is under editing.


Snippet:

Sarah hears him before she sees him, the clomping boots and multiple voices, but his is the loudest. The door is most likely kicked open and she stands hurriedly, almost knocking the chair over and smoothes her skirt.


He stands heads taller than her, his shoulders filling the frame with a thick wodge of A4 paper notes in his hand. When he looks up his eyes are cold, disinterested and he gives her a tilted look. “Who are you?” His voice is deep, hinting on amusement that some imbecile has dared creep into his room.

“Sarah Bennett.”

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How I use HabitRPG as an IB student

Alright, so if you haven’t heard of habitrpg, go google it now. It’s fricking great. I’m not going to go over how it works, I’m just gonna say it totally does and I am now so much more organised and motivated than ever.

As an IB student, I have a lot of stuff that need doing. CAS, EE, IAs, homework, etc. etc. And I try and keep on top of it all. Thing is, when you’ve got a fairly hectic out-of-school life like me, coupled with a really frustrating inability to focus for any significant amount of time, it’s hard knowing how to schedule and prioritise and write notes well and find 150 hours free, and so on.

IMAGINE MY JOY WHEN I FOUND THIS

THAT’S RIGHT GUYS, A WHOLE CHALLENGE DEVOTED TO THE IB. IT’S GOT EVERYTHING YOU’LL EVER HAVE TO DO AS AN IB STUDENT. EVERYTHING. CAS HOURS? GOT ‘EM. EE TRACKING? GOT IT. IT REWARDS YOU FOR DOING WELL. IT DOESN’T LET YOU OFF IF YOU DON’T. AND LOOK, YOU CAN EVEN HAVE A LITTLE NAP.

This is exactly what I was after. It’s all well and good having a hulking great paper wodge telling you what you’ll be doing, but it’s another thing entirely having it out and looming every time you log on. It’s really good. Y'know, beforehand I was dreading my CAS. Really, I was. Now I see the To-dos getting darker, I want to do it as soon as possible.

Personally, I also struggle with maths, so I’ve signed up for the Khanacademy mastery challenge too. That rewards you when you go on every day and get mastery over something new. It’s great. And it forces me to do maths every day, or my character loses health. I’ve become fairly attached to her (she is me, after all), so it’s a good motivation.

On top of that, it’s also really good as a website because I can not only say I have french homework, but I can put a checklist of all the components (planning, writing, verb and spell checking), and a due date (sooner than I’d like) and difficulty setting (I try and keep it proportionate), to help me prioritise, and motivate me if it’s harder, because it gives higher rewards.

nerdtasticjabberbox, Jonatan Dahlander (the khanacademy challenge creator), I salute you.

Novel publishing times: how long the process takes, and why

I had a query come through on Twitter about this, and thought people here might be interested in a detailed answer. 

First of all: this is only one of a number of ways the process can unfold. Timings will differ from publishing house to publishing house (and depending on how much urgency there is on a given project and its pub date). But this would be typical enough.

(more under the cut)

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shit i did in the amab nb femme place before i decided to transition (and to some degree do now)
  • plucked goatee area and as much of my cheek hair as possible, which on my own face makes my facial hair like 75% less visible and pretty much relieves my face-based self-hatred entirely. warning: this hurts a LOT. you can do this with any tweezers/mirror but it’s worth doing to invest in a LED parabolic mirror and a pair of tweezermans (or find them lying around). i feel like this is actually really instructive: most women have some hair on this area of their bodies, but it’s this hair and not really the neck/jaw area that transmisogynist obsession with facial hair tends to fixate on. why this is i’ll leave you to figure out
  • eyebrow shaping: i’m still not great at this and can’t give great advice, but removing a unibrow in and of itself is cool. tiny little body autonomy things
  • started actually taking care of my body because i could no longer use “as a man it’s good if i don’t care about this” as a way of justifying the behavior i fell into when extremely depressed (and because figuring this shit out made me less intensely and horribly depressed). exfoliating (that peach shit) and moisturizing (cocoa butter, grapeseed oil) more regularly was sort of a big deal for me for a while. also actually conditioning my damn hair (i have really fine hair and it was sort of sad i didn’t take advantage of that)
  • shaving more regularly (i wore a beard b/c i had a baby face and i had a baby face b/c i was relatively feminine and covering that up sort of became pointless)
  • lady clothes suited my body really well but it was also, besides that, just sort of cool to not specifically bother putting on a “masculine” presentation. i wore a lot of skirts for a fair while.
  • you’re going to need four measurements: hips and waist, a measurement beneath your breast area (“band size”) and over your nipples (“chest size”). chest and hips are going to be a limiting factor in what clothes you can wear, and once you know your measurements for those you can convert those into clothing sizes.  other measurements can be useful (you might need shoulders, for example, and knowing your height/wingspan can’t hurt) but in general these will determine whether or not off-the-rack clothes will fit or not
  • be careful about shopping online - i’ve been at it for more than half a year and it still fucking confuses the hell out of me. also in general lady clothes are fucking expensive, especially if you can’t try them on (there’s nothing stopping you, but if you can walk into a changing room with them you’re braver than me). goodwill is a good call. also if at all possible find a friend who can pass themselves off as a cis lady who has a similar chest or hip measurement to you - the fit won’t be anything alike, but it will at least tell you if an item of clothing will even get onto your body
  • don’t get attached to clothes or they’ll break your heart tbh
  • if you don’t wanna bother with leg hair but do wanna look ok in skirts: patterned leggings/tights are good for this (fishnets especially)
  • boob stuff: you can find a tutorial to make a breast form for like $10 worth of ingredients online. i had enough going on on my chest to just go with bra inserts (they’re like $10-20) wodged in my sports bras ($10 for 2 or 3). the sort of sports bra you want only has a band size. also, again, this isn’t gonna be everybody’s body, but coming out sort of made me accept that i was slouching to cover up substantial breast development (and to make my shoulders look broader than they were) and undoing that sort of helped a lot
  • look at yourself differently, study yourself to whatever degree you can, get to know your face and body
  • to that end, a cheap webcam was actually some of the best $15 i’ve ever spent - it’s muddy and poorly balanced enough that i can make out my eyes and facial expression and general facial demeanor but not my fucking beard. a++
  • makeup shit: apparently don’t do both eyes and lips at the same time? i’ve only figured out the bare rudiments of this. foundation and powder (baby powder works), a little orange lipstick dotted on and rubbed in to offset the bluish tint of beard shadow
  • try to have goals, try to have things to wake up for in the morning, etc
3

Today is the birthday of the lovely Tom Burke, so I’m celebrating by unleashing a fleet of mini-Burkes upon the world! Representing a sizeable wodge of the things he’s been in over the years, they are available on a range of products in my Redbubble store, including a poster, card, notebook, mug, t-shirt, tote bag and pillow.

Oh, and if any of you would like any of the individual Burkelets as stickers (other than Athos, who’s already on sale), just let me know and I’ll make them available…

I was very hungry; I had had nothing to eat since a hasty breakfast of rough parritch and boiled mutton, made soon after dawn at a posthouse in Dundaff. I had one last sandwich remaining in my pocket, but had been reluctant to eat it in the coach, under the curious gaze of my fellow travelers.

I pulled it out and carefully unwrapped it. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread, it was considerably the worse for wear, with the purple stains of the jelly seeping through the limp bread, and the whole thing mashed into a flattened wodge. It was delicious.
I ate it carefully, savoring the rich, oily taste of the peanut butter. How many mornings had I slathered peanut butter on bread, making sandwiches for Brianna’s school lunches?

I swallowed the last rich, sweet bite of my old life, and crumpled the wrapper in my hand. I glanced around, but no one was looking in my direction. I opened my hand, and let the bit of plastic film fall surreptitiously to the ground. Wadded up, it rolled a few inches on the cobbles, crinkling and unfolding itself as though alive. The light wind caught it, and the small transparent sheet took sudden wing, scudding over the gray stones like a leaf.

-Voyager

Mad Spaced - Chapter 6 - "Your Toast"

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

A/N: I’m happy with parts of this and less happy with others, but I feel like it’s going somewhere now, at least. I’ll tag those who I’ve tagged in the past. If you don’t want to be tagged, shoot me a line, or if you’d like to be added to the list, do the same.

Hope you like it!

ch1darkcy thisissomefreshbullshit teastaindiarythecrushingblack itsmirallegro fantasticab katywright340 darlingdiver hohumi slothpaws old-lady-at-heart adaftmyriad greenangelheart idontcareifyoudontbelieveme raernundo 14000romances gushington-central chicadificil arashian-emu

* * * * *

Rae awoke with a championship headache. The head she had could ache for England in a world competition. It had layers to it, the base was a dull hum, and there were throbby overtones, along with a metallic taste in her mouth that she couldn’t account for. The rest of her didn’t feel much better. As she went to sit up, to elevate her brain and maybe relieve some of the pressure inside her skull, she didn’t make it far before she was caught on something. 

Ah. An arm.

Wait. An arm? 

She felt along the appendage until she found the fingers at the end, then twisted the opposite direction to see who it was attached to. 

Oh. Finn. 

Wait. Finn?

Keep reading

Get moar (yes MOAR) monay in Assassin’s Creed Syndicate this weekend.

Between October 30 and November 2, you’ll earn 33% more cash for completing any in-game income activities within the “Lambeth” borough. Supported mission types include Carriage Hijacks/Escorts, Carriage Races, Train Robberies, and Fight Clubs.

Get ready to take to the streets and earn yourself an extra wodge of cash to line your coat pocket.