writing mixes

Music Series: Oops by Little Mix

Cute song! It kind of reminded me of something from the 60’s era, kind of a “Wishin’ and Hopin’” Dusty Springfield cuteness to it. Thanks for sharing and requesting!

This is “Oops” by Little Mix ft. Charlie Puth, which can be found on Spotify via this LINK.

xo

Shelli

*********************

Keep reading

College can be a lot sometimes. Over the past two years I’ve learned some helpful little tricks that help to keep me sane and on top of things, and it’s time I passed them on to all of you! Ahead in part one: scheduling classes, going to them, and homework. Be on the lookout for part two soon!

i. scheduling classes 

  • Take a full load, but keep it balanced.
    • Don’t schedule all of the tough classes for one semester. 
    • Also try to schedule it so that you will have a variety of homework (ie a mix of writing, tests, and worksheet focused classes)
  • Always speak to your advisor before scheduling classes.
  • Keep in mind that you will need time for homework and online classes when making your schedule.
    • Whether it means choosing not to have classes on certain days, putting a two hour break in between classes, or having all your classes in the afternoon so you can study in the mornings.
  • Keep in mind your personality when picking times.
    • 8AMs are rough. Unless you are the world’s biggest morning person, avoid them if you can. 
  • Be sure to have a plan for eating meals!
    • Some schools will let you bring your lunch into class, but I prefer to have a break during lunch so I can relax while I eat. 
  • Look at a map of campus when scheduling and try to schedule classes in the same building back-to-back, or at least near each other. 

ii. classes

  • Never go to class without a bottle of water and a pen.
  • If it’s a workday and you’re given the option to leave class and work elsewhere, actually use that time to work.
  • Sit wherever you’re comfortable. A lot of posts say to sit up front, but I personally prefer to sit further back so that I can fidget without worrying about distracting others. Figure out what works for you.
  • After about the third class, seats might as well be assigned. Don’t move and throw everyone else off unless you really have to.
  • Always be respectful and kind to your teachers and classmates.
  • Make at least one friend in every class. You don’t have to be bffs, but chat with the person you sit beside before every class so that you have someone to study or share notes with if you need to.
  • If you need to fidget to pay attention, consider bringing a small container of Play-Doh with you to lectures (you may want to let your teacher know what’s up, they’ll almost definitly be cool with it).

iii. homework

  • Unlike high school, you really can’t skip homework. Instead of getting lots of small worksheets, your grade will be decided by a few bigger projects or papers. Try to stay on top of things!
  • Break larger projects up into smaller deadlines.
  • If a class has a lot of worksheets as homework, start a study group so that you can all work on them together. 
  • Try to start homework as soon as you get it.
  • Don’t be afraid to ask from help from teachers, tutors, or classmates.
  • As soon as you get a syllabus, enter all of the due dates into your planner. If you wanna go the extra mile (hint: you do), go ahead and add in dates to start working on projects, too. 
  • Work ahead so that you have the flexibility to hang out with your friends at the last minute, instead of being stuck in the library working on a project that’s due first thing in the morning. 
  • Never plagiarize. It’s the fastest way to get kicked out of a class, or even a whole program. If you’re not sure if it needs a citation, it needs a citation. 
  • The number one rule is simple: do all your work, and do it the best you can. As long as you follow that, you’ll be golden. 

Happy studying, and be on the lookout for part two coming soon!

“So what are you?”

The question which plagued my childhood in suburban Kansas; the ponderance of which led me towards years of agonizing identity searching; the answer to which I still hesitate to deliver.

“So what are you?”

It is an innocent question; one I know I am not alone in hearing the echoes of. But what do I say? “I’m mixed” is the short answer, but it always leads to the question of “With what” so do I say “My mom is white and my dad is brown” but brown isn’t usually specific enough so do I say “my mom is white and my dad’s Pakistani” but that doesn’t flow right because white is a race and Pakistani is a nationality so do I say “my mom’s American and my dad’s Pakistani” but that isn’t true because my dad was born in Canada and he’s lived here his whole life and American sure as hell doesn’t mean white I mean my dad IS American so do I say “My mom’s a white American and my Dad’s Pakistani American” but that just sounds like I’m trying too hard so that’s out of the question and so do I just drop it and leave it at “none of your business” but that’s rude and it’s really such a simple question so what in the hell do I freaking say?

“So what are you?”

It’s a good question, really… why don’t you tell me? I am the alienation that I feel when my mom’s family talks about how dangerous those Muslim immigrants are over dinner and I am the strange sinking feeling in my stomach which occurs when my cousins tell me that whatever I’ve just done is haraam. I am the frustration which clouds me when people around me doubt that I am what the hell I say I am. I am the product of the millisecond long stares of confusion people give me when I tell them the pale as china blonde lady I’m with is my mother and the looks of disgust I get when I, the young, doll eyed light skinned girl, go out to dinner late at night with a big burly middle aged brown man, aka my father. I am the three and a half years it took me to decide what to call the pigmentation of my skin.

I am the sadness which clouds me when one of my Aunties asserts how lucky I am to be so fair skinned. I am the anger I feel each and every time I think about the people who called my full and plump Desi lips fat as a kid and now use copious amounts of lip liner to accentuate their tiny mouths on Snapchat. I am the hours of hoping and praying during and after shootings that it wasn’t a Muslim. I am the incredible lengths I go to, the precise and complex knowledge I feel I must have of my roots in order to truly claim my heritage. I am neither and I am both and I hate it.

“So what are you?”

I can’t stand here and tell you that it is all bad. That would be I lie, for I am also the cool, smooth feeling of the bronze crucifix which sits on one side of my bedroom wall and the sentiment of the words “Allah most merciful” written in beautiful Arabic script on the other. I am my large French hazel eyes and my thick and wavy South Asian hair, my favorite of my features.

I am the pride I feel as I trace my thumb over the intricate embroidery on one of my anarkalis and the anticipation I feel for Christmas as I help line my grandmother’s fireplace with garland. I am the rhythmic clanking of my bangles as I dance to bhangra music at a cousin’s wedding and the clicking of tongues by a sizzling grill as my grandpa flips our burgers during a Sunday night barbeque. I am the flavorful and savory taste of pulao my father makes and the creamy texture of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving. I am the Maybelline mascara I coat my eyelashes with and the kajal I used to line the edges of my eyes. I am the flavorant meeting of two cultures melting in an incredible country in which such a thing is even possible.

“So what are you?”

God, but what am I thinking? I’m Jackie. I am the impending messiness that is my bedroom. I am my inability to fall the hell asleep before eleven o’clock at night. I am my love for all things fashion and glamour. I am my obnoxiously large collection of makeup. I am my hideous shedding of tears each and every time Spock dies in the Wrath of Khan.

I am my intense love for horror movies and my struggle to move in the dark for two days after watching them. I am my passion for music and Michael J. Fox and Kanye West and my unrequited love for Zayn Malik. I am my collection of records and of 32 scarves which I never wear, my brown riding boots, my belting of Christmas carols in the middle of July, my irrational hatred of algebra, my inability to sleep without my phone being on its charger, the Toll House cookie dough I eat straight from the bag and the four Beatles posters I have hanging in my room.

I am the scent of Aussie conditioner and my clumsy, spacy nature; my obsession with the Kennedys, my adamant love for Diet Dr Pepper, losing myself in my daydreams, my extreme extroversion and procrastination of literally everything, my weakness for Reese’s peanut butter cups, my A to Z knowledge about Mick Jagger, my ever changing mind. I am my dreams and I am my fears and and I am my tenacity and I am my mistakes and my courage and my insecurities and my abilities and my hope … I am so much and yet I am so little. I am me. I am unapologetically and beautifully me.

“So what are you?”

I am Jacqueline Renee and I am what I am and no answer that I give you to this question will make what I am any different.

the Indians are dead, they said

They took us on a field trip to the Everglades
Where we visited big cypress reservation
Most of them died out, teacher said
Precious few left on the rez

I remember marveling at the beadwork and artifacts in the museum
And the chickees amongst the cypress trees
wondering why these things were locked up behind glass,
Why this was “just history”, relics of the past
Reading the words on the museum plaques;
the Seminoles and Creeks
were once one people

Something in me lit up,
That’s me! That’s me,
Wayward Indian without a culture,
forced by the whiteness of public education to view colonizers as explorers,
My own people as savages
Well, the word creek was said
But still, “those Indians, they’re dead”

In fourth grade we had to pick a conquistador to do a project on
Picking a Native American was not an option

Pick your favorite Spaniard,
Who civilized this stinking swampland
And saved it’s savage people
So I picked desoto
That fabled hero who brutalized us
Hungry for the riches of our land

This is what my education taught me;
That my people no longer really exist,
savages swallowed up by European refinement
That our land is not ours, and never again will be
That an Indian is an Indian is an Indian,
Until the white man decides the Indian is white enough that their Indian blood is meaningless

That our culture can be summed up in a museum plaque,
That no one among us was ever great, when held up next to the blessed colonizers

I grew up thinking that my indigenous blood was meaningless,
that whiteness had even won the war within my own body

The Indians are dead, they said
Except for the few who run the museums
and hog our tax dollars

The Indians are dead, they said
And if that’s true,
I must be dead too

- kelsie marina (2017)

anonymous asked:

Hi there, I was wondering; in a fantasy setting, should "ranged fighters," AKA archers or mages (especially mages), wear any kind of armor? One of my friends (who is a little too glued to the idea of using gaming terms for his fight scenes) doesn't give his ranged fighters much protection because "they have tank who will aggro," despite me telling him that in IRL situations enemies won't always work like that, and ranged fighters are deadly and would easily become top priority during battle.

Which works right until the tank can’t maintain aggro, then the DPS scatter, because of course they do, and everyone wipes because, turns out, it’s nearly impossible to hit two idiots on opposite sides of the arena at the same time with the same AoE.

…or the tank never slotted a taunt, and the healer ends up running from and DPSing Bloodspawn, while the DPS stand in stupid trying to revive each other. No, I’m not thinking of a specific event, why do you ask?

Games are, by nature, an incredibly abstract approach to combat. Even inside of an MMO, the sharp difference between how PvE and PvP plays out should be a pretty solid indicator of how fragile the entire concept of aggro is.

An AI driven NPC needs to know who to attack. In most cases they’ll prioritize incoming damage, and target whatever’s dealing the most. The entire idea of a tank is to fake out that number, boost it further, or in some cases, completely override aggro generation, and take the brunt of the enemy’s attacks. Which is downright hilarious, when you step back and think about it. You’re talking about sending a party of adventurers up against an ancient demon who’s been sealed outside of the universe for millennia, but he will ignore the people actively trying to kill him, because that idiot who’s doing almost nothing to him said some mean things about his mother.

As I understand it, and I could be wrong here, Tanking is something that has come, almost exclusively, from metagaming. The idea that, “well, players are going to take damage, so let’s concentrate it on a single player to make the healer’s job easier,” doesn’t have a place in the real world. I’m not sure if the strategy dates back to tabletop, or came from the early MMOs like Ultima Online or Everquest. As I said, it doesn’t have any basis in reality.

The closest you can get is the role of infantry and skirmishers in mass combat. But, at that point, sticking infantry between your enemy and your archers wasn’t about protecting the archers, so much as, that the infantry were your primary combat force.

Step into PvP, and the value of a tank diminishes sharply. Most human players understand that, so long as the healer is up, nobody’s going anywhere, so they become public enemy number one.  Hell, most of the times, when you give players an AI controlled encounter with a healer, your priority is clear. No, it’s not the big tanky guy/girl/sentient iguana with death rays mounted on its armor.

That said, I’ve seen a lot of games try to make the tank more valuable in PvP. Reducing enemy mobility, debuffing them, applying selective buff manipulation that makes a taunted target deal far less damage to other targets. All of it is a band aid on a system, trying to make the role function in an environment where the tank’s foes are smart enough to say, “nah, he’s not a problem, I’m going to wax the healer first.” Though, bonus points awarded to the games that just go, “screw it, the tank is the healer.”

Mages wearing robes is a setting or character decision. If armor somehow impairs a mage’s ability to cast magic, then that’s something they’ll want to avoid. If a mage isn’t, primarily, a combatant, and dislikes, or can’t afford, armor, they may avoid it for those reasons. That said, if armor doesn’t interfere with your mage’s ability to cast magic, they understand how to use it, and can afford it, not wearing armor is just being stupid (even if it is that character’s preference).

The whole concept of tiering armor based on the combat role is another gameplay abstraction, without a lot of basis in history. Armor was expensive. To the point that most rulers couldn’t afford to outfit large standing forces in heavy armor.  You got the best armor you could afford. If you were supplied out of an armory, you wore what you were handed, which might just be a padded gambeson.

Thing is, I rather like armor tiering. At least from a gameplay perspective. It informs the player what the armor they’ve found is useful for, and is very useful for deciding if the gear you just found is going to be helpful for your playstyle. In MMOs it can help break up players, so that you have an easier time identifying their roles. But, it is an abstract, game system, with no relation to reality. Trying to take these things out, and evaluate them outside of their native environment can be tricky. This is how you end up with characters who can instantly cram three hundred cheese wedges down their gullet to fully recover from being set on fire and flung off a cliff into the sea, hundreds of feet below.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. If you enjoy our content, please consider becoming a Patron. Every contribution helps keep us online, and writing. If you already are a Patron, thank you.

anonymous asked:

mixed race katie holt, you say??? i'm here. hit me with these hcs. pls.

I’VE HAD THIS IN MY INBOX FOR A LONG TIME AND THE LAST POST REMINDED ME OF THIS ASK I’M SORRY FOR THE DELAY I LOVE YOU

  • Pidge’s mom was actually born in Mexico and was one of the highest regarded pilots in the country. She’s a white-passing latinx, and the lightest one in her family whom she loves with all her heart. When offered an instructor position in the Garrison, she accepted in a heartbeat, and met her future husband Sam. 
  • Matt and Pidge don’t look alike. They get questioned all the time if they have different dads or if one of them is adopted, and sometimes they’ll really roll with it. 
  • Pidge has super thick, curly hair thanks to her abuela on her mom’s side. Also has the really dark leg hair and armpit hair and the thick eyebrows, and doesn’t always feel like shaving because it just grows back in a day or two anyway.
  • Pidge is fluent in Spanish. She learned on her own when she was twelve because her mom only really speaks it in the house. Matt on the other hand is a master of Spanglish. 
  • Their family visits Mexico every summer to meet up with their family. Everyone’s excited to see them, and Pidge is really happy to spend time with her family, but her cousins especially.
  • Every time someone tries to guess her ethnicity or she gets asked “what are you?”/”where are you really from” she loses two years of her life.
  • Basically most conversations Pidge has had with a white person can be summed up like this:
    • Pidge: I’m mixed.
      White: Haha, so like a mutt right?:)
      Pidge: [eye twitch]
    • White: Oh man, mixed babies are the cutest. I think I might marry an ethnic man just for how beautiful are mixed babies will be.
      Pidge: [stares into the camera like she’s in the office]
    • White: You can’t be part Mexican! Your name is Katie Holt! That’s not a Mexican sounding name.
      Pidge: WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING!?
  • The Latinx solidarity between Lance and Pidge on the Castle!!!
    • They gossip and talk to each other in Spanish like all the time. It’s nice because they have someone to converse with and keep their Spanish fresh. 
    • Pidge: [talking about her visits to Mexico] 
      Lance: [thinking about his visits to Cuba in contrast and laughs] Mexicanxs malcriadas.
      Pidge: [grinning] Callaté la boca, feo.
    • Lance teasing Pidge and calling her a gringa ‘cause she was born in the U.S. AND SHE GETS SO RILED UP UNTIL HE’S FORCED TO TAKE IT BACK LMAO
  • MIXED RACE KATIE HOLT (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧

sext: people died for you.
I bet you liked it.

sext: they say Helen’s was the face
that launched a thousand ships
but she’s got nothing on you.

sext: good men took up arms and you
torched a city to the ground.

sext: But, oh, the roar of victory.
You must have been so proud.

—  HOW TO MAKE LOVE TO THE GOD OF WAR, by Ashe Vernon

Before I start, I’m gonna check my privilege as a US citizen.

But this isn’t about me as a US citizen, this is about mixed status families. this is about the reality that for some of us, being together isn’t a right anymore, papeles or not. there won’t be a time where my mother, my father, my sisters and me will find ourselves together in a room - my papeles won’t give us that luxury. My papeles give me the privilege to see my mother three times a year, but never with my father, never with my sisters - this is what a mixed status family looks like, always in pieces, always in parts.

Mixed status families look like a cold winter with only one cobija and the inability to share, not because you don’t want to, but because the government doesn’t let you, because the government hasn’t felt cold before.

Mixed status families look like only one of you getting to meet your grandma before she passes, because papeles can’t stop time, can’t stop our loved ones from growing, can’t stop them from leaving to find peace on a side where borders don’t exist.

Mixed status families look like fear, for all of us, all the time.

Mixed status families look like papi hoping mami comes home, mami hoping papi will come home, sisters hoping they’ll know what home looks like, they were too young to know, dreaming of a land where survival was accesible.

Mixed status families is never truly feeling whole, never truly feeling complete, because a part of you, is always…missing.

—  Mixed Status Families
A Mix Tape

The “mix tape,” as Castiel understands it, is an expression of devotion. Music is a common expression of emotion; music is an extension of the human soul. Though Castiel appreciates music, there is very little close to Castiel’s own heart that plays within the range of human hearing. Reciprocating the gesture exactly seems destined to fail. But a mix tape, Castiel reasons, is a compilation of messages signifying thoughts, dreams, emotions, the soul. He can work with the general concept.

~~~

Dean heads to bed half dead with exhaustion, up too late researching what looks to be a new monster gobbling people in Southwest border towns. He misses the box at first. It’s almost the same color as his bedspread. But he jostles it when he collapses onto his mattress and it rattles. “What the–?”

Dean flips open the lid and stares for a moment at the jumble inside, confused. There’s a cross-cut spiral sea shell that catches the light with a milky sheen. He pulls stiff handmade paper wrapped in twine. Dean unwraps it to find a pressed violet, purple petals spread perfectly to display its still vibrant yellow streaked center. There’s a glass bird, blown from forest green glass. There’s a peanut butter jar. Emptied of food, it now holds black loam with one perfect oval stone on top. There’s a rolled up piece of paper with a drawing of a 1967 Chevy Impala, perfectly rendered. Dean and Sam lean against the car laughing, their smiles carefully etched in fine, thin pencil strokes. Dean takes all of these and lays them out on the bedspread, body curled around the spread like a dragon protecting its hoard

Outside he hears a timid knock. Dean looks up and he knows his emotions sit on his face like a ten foot tall neon sign when he says, “come on in.” Cas opens the door, but doesn’t step inside. He looks apprehensive, though Dean can tell he’s trying to hide it. Cas’s face is war-stiff but his eyes are a little too wide, brows a little too high.

“You do this?” Dean asks, needlessly.

Cas balls his fists at his side. “You, uh– I wanted to…return the gesture.” He looks half terrified but his gaze stays riveted on Dean like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat in the ocean.

Dean looks back down at the bedspread. “A mix tape,” he says before looking up with a grin. “You did good, Cas.”

Cas relaxes into the door frame and Dean extends his hand to him. “C'mere,” he says. “Tell me about everything.”

I Love My Redneck

Daryl Dixon x Reader | SmutAF | 18+ Only Warning!

Request #1: I’m so happy that now we can make requests lmao. Would you do one with lap dance? Like … Daryl find some old CD of some band that YN likes (Led Zep for ex) and she do a lap dance on him and … you know how end up hehe ! Love your work, sincerely!

Request #2: One that YN get calling by one man that she finds in a run, he says something like “can’t believe you’re with a old redneck” and that’s hurt Daryl and then when you two got back, he gets quite and then you two make love, all kind and eye in the eye 😍

Summary: Early Season 4. Prison Era. Daryl and the Reader have been dating for a while, they go out on a run to scavenge for supplies and the Reader turns Daryl on. Smut ensues. Reader finds a radio with some tapes including Daryl’s favorite band, Led Zeppelin. Reader takes it intending to treat Daryl with a lap dance later. Later that night they are around the campfire at the prison when to younger men ask the Reader why she is with an old redneck. The reader responds and later finds out Daryl is upset by it. The reader comforts Daryl and treats him to a lap dance. They make love afterwards, salty and sweetly.

(A/N: This one was really fun to write, I hope you all enjoy it! A great way to send off the Daryl smut before Macmanus March.)

—–

You trip and scrape your knee as you run quickly through the forest and trip and fall onto the asphalt of the nearby town you were scavenging as a group.

“Gah!” You cry out in pain as you sit up and cradle the blood scraped knee, on the ground.

Suddenly, from the corner of your eye you see Daryl rush over and sit beside you, not worried about anything else but you.

You smile softly over at him and roll your eyes, “I’m okay, baby. I am just a klutz, you say chuckling to yourself and reaching your hand out to him.

He smiles softly and nods his head, standing back up and taking both of your arms in his big strong hands and pulling you back to safety and back into his arms. You wrap your arms loosely around his shoulders and sway your body back and forth lovingly in front of him, smiling as his hands rest softly on the small of your back.

You hear a throat clear behind you and your eyes turn quickly to the source. Rick stands there trying to remain in serious mode, but grinning a little that he had to pull you two off of each other, yet again.

He nods to you and up to Daryl, who smirks uncontrollably at his friend, shrugging his shoulders at his fatherly stare. Rick chuckled and nodded his head to the ground, kicking the dirt with his boot a few times before turning an easy smile back towards you both.

You grin and square your shoulders, standing next to Daryl, pressing your shoulder to his, as you reach down and grab his hand.

Keep reading

2

is anybody listening? - for writing or being introspective

i. intro - alt-j | ii. hurricane - msmr | iii. violet hill - coldplay | iv. renegades - x ambassadors | v. fireside - arctic monkeys | vi. mongrel heart - broken bells | vii. breakeven - the script | viii. crystals - of monsters & men | ix. interlude II (guitar) - alt-j | x. soft offering - hey rosetta! | xi. need the sun to break - james bay | xii. the woodpile - frightened rabbit | xiii. starlight - muse | xiv. lights out, words gone - bombay bicycle club | xv. afterglow - inxs | xvi. outro - m83

[listen]

[cover art]

I’m not same person you knew. I’m not helpless, I’m not weak and I’m not a damsel in distress. I am not waiting around for you and I am doing fine on my own. Isn’t it funny how tables turn? Now you chase after me but you blew your chances years ago. You didn’t want me so now I don’t want you, it’s simple really. I won’t give in no matter how hard you keep trying because here isn’t anything to give into. I’ve grown.
—  Based on Grown by Little Mix