August192014
10AM

arlmuffin:

meanwhile at shepard’s wardrobe

(via galactallama)

10AM

sailorshiro:

nigga-chan:

hippydippywoodstocktrippy:

well this is racist and generalizing, yet the people who actually agree with this post are the ones who love to piss and moan about others being racist and generalizing people

A white person wrote this book so please take it up with him if you really that mad

this is literally so true tho i love all these things well mostly haha

(via crimsonash330)

10AM
umbreon-ite:

Ah yes, the flute

umbreon-ite:

Ah yes, the flute

(via epic-humor)

9AM

kuueater:

boomsticks-and-firewater:

puellamagidolaon:

lovrdlogic:

When you crack your knuckles you hurt the skeleton inside you

Good, the skeleton needs to know that I am the alpha and I am in control.

Break your own bones to establish dominance over skeleton.

image

(via jamesbuckybuchanan)

9AM

fullyactivated:

swolizard:

canipjur:

laysiaprincess:

cocobunnynai:

samoanshugavery:

trilluminati:

San Francisco Police shoot & kill 19 yr old

Warning: the video is graphic.

Yesterday, at 4:45 p.m., SFPD shot a teenager who fled during a fair inspection on a Muni light rail car. The cops claimed that he was armed and had fired shots at them first. After the suspect was shot in the back, no gun was found. Doesn’t this sound awfully familiar? 

Seriously though, you shot a 19 yr old over a $2 fair? And he later died in the hospital, all because he didn’t pay a $2 fair & you assumed he had a gun. Back up arrived before an ambulance did. No back up was needed. There were already other cops on the scene, some even carrying assault rifles.  The man was on the ground fighting for his life. That moment in the video where he struggles to even attempt to get up is some of the most chilling video I’ve seen. Ever. 

It’s okay though right? America will probably ignore this & move on to some more mindless crap,  as is usually the case. I’ve seen it before with the Oscar grant case, Sean bell, James Brissette, and countless others. When will this country’s collective conscious wake up?

 i’m tired of shit like this happening 

smfh what the fuck ever happened to shoot to injure not shoot to kill ! 

I’m so sickened by this. We’re losing our black man for what? For the color of their skin? Such bullshit. And he was only fucking 19 and had his whole life ahead of him. I hope you rest in peace dear 

This makes me so mad and WHY DOESNT THIS HAVE MILLIONS OF NOTES. this is more then just what we see on the news it’s reality for the black community.

and y’all think Im playing when I say it isnt all sunshine and rainbows living and growing up in the bay

And if he didn’t run and just stood there with his hands up he could have still been killed and the police could have used the same story. The worst part is the other police will try and rally around there fellow officer instead trying to get justice, which is a big part of what their job is supposed to be.

(via crimsonash330)

8AM

pleatedjeans:

You should follow @pleatedjeans

(via crimsonash330)

8AM
thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

(via critter-of-habit)

August182014
jontronshat:

wentdog:

The ’50s were fucked up man.

*tries this at next house party*

jontronshat:

wentdog:

The ’50s were fucked up man.

*tries this at next house party*

(via buckyforpresident)

1PM

timelordparadise:

drbirdsadviceforsadpoets:

none of that was expected.

I have seen this at least five times and every time the ending takes me by surprise

(Source: earthexplodes.com, via khaleesi-dany)

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