A “Sent” folder.
A notification when someone answers your ask.
A WORKING VIDEO PLAYER
TEXT POSTS NOT CONVERTED TO LINKS WITHOUT CONSENT
IF LUCIFER NEEDS CONSENT TO ENTER SAMS BODY THEN YOU NEED CONSENT TO CHANGE IT TO LINKS
whoever wrote this line needs to receive a medal
I will reblog this until my fingers bleed
HOLY JESUS CHRIST.
I’M GOING TO FUCKING THROW UP.
MY STOMACH AS DROPPED AND I HAVE DIED YOU’RE ALL WELCOME TO ATTEND MY FUNERAL
Tom Hiddleston impressions are one of my favorite things ever.
okay, I’m not one of those people who are super into any celebrities
but dat voice
WHY IS HE DOING JUNGLE BOOK. /sobbing
*whimpers* He so needs to do voices for animated movies with Ben!
my ovaries are puddles
KNITTERS WANTED FOR PENGUIN PULL-OVERS
The Penguin Foundation in Australia has a global callout for knitters to make pullovers for penguins in rehab.
Penguins caught in oil spills need the little jumpers to keep warm and to stop them from trying to clean the toxic oil off with their beaks.
Knitter Lyn Blom is the receptionist at Phillip Island Nature Parks in Victoria and has knitted many penguin jumpers over the years.
The Penguin Foundation is based at Phillip Island, which is known for having a large penguin colony.
Lyn Blom says it’s not just major oil spills that cause problems for local penguins.
"Fishermen might clean out a container or something while they’re at sea," says Lyn.
"It’s a continuing problem," she says. "We get probably about 20 birds a year."
One advantage of knitting a penguin sweater is that they are small.
"They’re very quick," says Lyn.
The Penguin Foundation also distributes the jumpers to other wildlife rescue centres where needed.
You can download more information about how to knit for penguins, including the knitting pattern and where to send the finished product.
While the Penguin Foundation’s website says it currently has a ‘good supply’ of the little jumpers, the organisation also uses them in educational programs as well as selling them as a fundraising measure.
EVERYONE GO KNIT A PENGUIN A TINY SWEATER
my school has a confessions page on facebook and
I’m sorry but
and this one is just a wild ride
oh mygod that last story.
This fucking post. Oh my god.
When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
|—||r.d. (via vonmoire)|
IM LAUGHING SO HARD RN I WAS TALKING TO MY CRUSH FROM 5TH GRADE AND WE HAVENT SEEN EACH OTHER FOR LIKE 5 YEARS AND HE WAS LIKE “DID U KNOW I DATED KATY A” IM CRYING I DATED HER TOO WHAT DO I SAY
update i told him i dated her too and he asked me if i was bi and i said yes and he said “oh i am too” and wE DATED THE SAME GUY AND THE SAME GIRL AND NOW WE’RE TALKING ABOUT HOW SEXY DEAN WINCHESTER IS IM GONNA MARRY THIS GUY
it looks like he just popped out of a pokeball omg
Or out of one of those giant birthday cakes.
Like everyone is stood around at the party and the cake gets wheeled in and everyone starts singing..
“Happy Birthday to y-“
“…Are you the stripper?”
“…I am a God you dull creature.”
*casually brushes cake frosting off cape*
This caption. I can’t. I need this because reasons.
Your wish… My two hours down the drain.