They/she, 30, lazy writer. Here's to sigils in coffee creamer and half read books about magic. I write short stories about subverting destiny and being funnier than the bad guy.
The thing that gets me about the Tramp Stamps is that, even if they weren’t an industry plant, half their shit is toxic as hell. Normally I’d just say nothing and move on since things aren’t always Made for Me, but then they came on tumblr and I got the thrilling experience of hearing more than their debut song and it’s All Bad.
Take their recent song I’d Rather Die which is supposed to be about how unfulfilling sex with straight white guys makes them want to die and it’s just…the worst fucking garbage. I wouldn’t normally use such strong language, but it’s–
Alright, I can’t be succinct, here’s a breakdown of why I’d Rather Die is the absolute fucking worst.
Lyrically:
I can’t remember the last time/I slept with someone I/ Actually liked and he went down on me/I can’t recall a memory/ Of someone driving me/Home and not asking for a blow job
I can’t even tell you the fucking leaps I had to make to understand that they’re talking about guys asking for oral sex but never reciprocating. What it actually sounds like is complaining about having genuine feelings for guys who are bad in bed and then just JUMPING to other encounters when guys try to solicit sex for favors. Incomprehensible narrative, 3/10.
You’re standing in line for basketball during lunch with your best friend of six months when it happens.
The most popular boy in school calls her a word you don’t know in one breath and then says, “You’re on my team.”
She’s been waiting for nearly an hour to get called into play.. She turns on her heel and marches out of line. “I don’t want to play with you.”
You scramble after her, confused. “What? What did he say?”
She doesn’t answer you. She looks like she has a fever, eyes glassy and face flushed as she stomps up to the teacher on duty.
“Oh,” the teacher says, “Oh, he didn’t mean it. He just heard someone else say that and wants to sound cool.”
“But he called me a name,” she says. “We aren’t allowed to call people names.”
“He didn’t mean it,” the teacher repeats. “I promise.”
Your friend’s eyes aren’t glassy now. They’re very, very sharp. “Okay. He’s a fucking dickhead.”
“We do not use that language,” the teacher says. “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
“I didn’t mean it,” she says.
The teacher’s jaw clenches. “Yes, you did. You’ve lost free time this week.”
“Does he?” she asks.
The teacher refuses to answer and pulls out the penalty notebook to write down your friend’s name.
You don’t know what’s happening, but you know that something’s gone very wrong here. You say, “You’re fucking up, teacher.” Then, when the teacher gapes at you, “What does fuck mean?”
It is the first time you get detention, on a different day than your friend.
You don’t have to fake orgasm to help your partner’s ego. The guy I lost my virginity to wrote a play about the experience, and the character based on me gave a monologue about how she regretted sleeping with him because no one else would ever be that good. So, yeah. Just tell him you didn’t cum.
Im sorry he wrote a fucking what
(via coffeedoodle)
If anyone tries to tell you that Shakespeare is stuffy or boring or highbrow, just remember that the word “nothing” was used in Elizabethan era slang as a euphemism for “vagina”.
Shakespeare has a play called “Much Ado About Nothing”, which you could basically read in modern slang as “Freaking Out Over Pussy”. And that’s pretty much exactly what happens in the play.
It’s also a pun with a third meaning. There’s the sex sense of much ado about “nothing”, there’s the obvious sense that people today see, and then there’s the fact that in Shakespeare’s day, “nothing” was pronounced pretty much the same as “noting”, which was a term used for gossip. So, “Flamewar Over Rumors” works as a title interpretation, too.
The reason we call Shakespeare a genius is that he can make a pussy joke in the same exact words he uses to make biting social commentary about letting unverified gossip take over the discourse.
So like.
A truly accurate modern translation would be “I Cunt Believe He Said That”?
@copperbadge YOU GO AND SIT AMONG THE MUSTARDS AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU’VE DONE
I truly feel the ghost of Shakespeare has never been more proud of me.
I feel Shakespeare’s approval in this chili’s tonight
(via knitmeapony)
This ask has taken me hostage, I gotta go now
@kaleigh-world also asked this! I’ll answer it here if that’s alright :)
Necromancer: Have you had any prominent supernatural experiences?
I suppose I have! Prominent to me at least.
So I should start by saying that I don’t claim to have any extrasensory abilities, not any more than any other person who believes in the supernatural! One of my more sensitive friends used to call me a null because shit just goes right over my head. My general attitude towards the supernatural is “Fuuuuuck that, I don’t want to deal with that.”
that being said, I have seen a few pretty spooky things!
I’ve seen people die, twice right under my hands. Both times, right as they were about to go, I heard their voice in my head. Maybe I’m just good at reading people, but both times I locked eyes with them and heard two, distinct sentences. And I mean, it was so clear that my eardrums throbbed like the sound had actually reached them though neither person were capable of speaking at the end.
On a lighter note, I’ve seen a ghost before, or maybe just a collection of energy? It looked like a column of mist and disappeared when I looked too hard at it. Could it have been because of my tired eyes? Maybe! But I believe there was an intelligence there I definitely didn’t have the energy to project at the time!
Anonymous Asks:
“So the wires…touched?” the man with the most bits of metal on his uniform says. He raises nearly non-existent eyebrows at you. “They just…touched.”
You think you might want to kill him. “Yes,” you say. “And then the siren started going.”
The military brass all mutter among themselves, most of them still glaring. You don’t know why you have to explain a simple circuit to them–you’ve already given the all clear.
“I don’t buy it,” the woman with the second most bits of metal on her uniform says. She looks at the man with the most – you feel like you should really start learning about ranks or paying attention or something – and says, “This close to the deadline? I don’t believe this is a coincidence, Colonel.”
“Neither do I, Major,” the Colonel says. He rubs his chin. “It’s those damned–” his eyes slide to you and then away “–those hostiles. You know the ones.”
The Major looks at you just as suspiciously. “Yes…I do.”
“Look,” you say, “No one did this. The guy who wired this base did a shit job. Nothing’s secured, nothing’s organized, and I think they skimped on materials. It was an accident. That’s it.”
The Colonel swells. “And what? You decided to evacuate the base because of an accident.”
You try to keep from screaming. “As I told you before, I am not in charge of safety protocols. I’m just here to tell you that it was an accident. Not a melt down, not opposing forces, nada.”
“A likely story,” the Major murmurs. “Sir, permission to activate Foxfire-Delta?”
The Colonel stares at you as if waiting for you to break. When all you do is stare back, he nods briskly. “By the top of the hour, Major.”
She hurries away, barking orders to the evacuated personnel. The Colonel stays right in front of you, arms crossed.
“If I find out you’re lying,” the Colonel growls, “you’d best believe that you can kiss your civilian contract goodbye.”
“After this, you might be the one doing the kissing,” you say. You did not go to MIT for this shit. “The one kissing goodbye. Because I’m going to quit.”
The Colonel’s eyes narrow. “You’re on a four year contract.”
You had forgotten about that. You glare right back at him. “I know. So if I were you, Colonel, I’d look into tripling my budget, huh? Think about that when your stupid plan turns out to be unnecessary.” You turn on your heel and stalk back to your team who are looking pale and worried a little ways away. When you look over your shoulder, you see the Colonel looking thoughtful before turning away.
“Alright,” you say when the Colonel is out of earshot. “The good news is that I think I just got us enough funding to fix this garbage dump.”
Your underlings perk up, excited. They’ve been on base longer than you and are more than ready for an upgrade.
“What’s the bad news?” Oscar asks. He and his accomplice, Pearl, are looking very apprehensive.
Good.
You grin at him, baring your teeth. “The bad news is that you two are getting a promotion. You’re my personal assistants and any and all communications from the higher ups are going to go through you.”
Oscar looks like he’s heading to the gallows. Pearl jerks indignantly. “That’s not fair! We were just trying to cut down on time waste–”
“–by installing a clapper,” you snap at her. You fold your arms. “And look how well that turned out.”
All of eight of them turn to look at the military personnel grudgingly gearing up to storm their own base.
“But, like,” Oscar says, “a really fancy clapper.”
“It was calibrated to a very specific vibration,” Pearl complains. “How were we supposed to know it was Bronte’s ringtone?”
“Because I haven’t changed it in six months?” Bronte suggests. She looks pissed. “I swear to god if this falls back on me…” She trails off menacingly.
“It won’t,” you assure her. You pause. “Though I am curious to know why you have what I assume to be discordant screaming as your ringtone.”
“It’s my mother’s ringtone,” Bronte tells you.
“O-kay,” you say. You decide not to ask any more questions. “Game plan–we keep this quiet. No leaks, no casual mentions, nothing. Got it?”
“But why?” Bronte asks. “They’d be the ones getting fired, not us.”
Pearl and Oscar gulp. “Out of the good of your heart?” Oscar suggests.
You can’t help it. You laugh. “Oh fuck no. It’s so you two morons stick around long enough for us to properly punish you.”
They don’t seem reassured.
Good.
He made the Harry Potter tune so wavy
I knew it was gonna be fire when he threw the scarf on the neck.
OKAY BUT WHERE CAN I DOWNLOAD THIS MASTERPIECE
(via spacemermaidqueen)
Head Canon that it takes months for Mark Watney to stop narrating everything that he is doing. And most of that is peppered with generous profanity.
“Now I am going to cleanse myself with precious precious water. Fuck you Mars!”
The crew indulges him for a while but eventually starts saying, “Fuck you Mars!” as a general phrase of discontent.
The coffeemaker jams? “Fuck you Mars!”
Someone stubs a toe? “Fuck you Mars!”NASA is not amused when tshirts and bumperstickers pop up.
