33,658 notes

grimdarkthroes:

you know whatd be a fun exercise

get a writer and an artist together. artist does a sketch, writer writes a handful of paragraphs. they give them to each other.

writer has to write a handful of paragraphs on the scene depicted in the sketch, and it cant be just like, describing it. artist has to draw a new sketch from the writing.

it’d be a neat lil’ flex-the-muscles sort of thing. 

Saaaam.  SAAAAAAM.  Plaaaaay with meeeeee.

(via actualmenacebuckybarnes)

22,646 notes

why you're on tumblr, by zodiac
aquarius:
no friends
capricorn:
afraid of sunlight
pisces:
too big of a weaboo
aries:
too oppressed to go outside
taurus:
allergic to fresh air
gemini:
too lazy to move
cancer:
completely forgotten how to move
leo:
can't find the login button for life
virgo:
tumblr took your soul
scorpio:
in a committed relationship with your computer
libra:
reality-phobic
sagittarius:
fallen and can't get up

Filed under reality-phobic ahahahaha i laugh because it's true

83,239 notes

prokopetz:

grrspit:

nessanotarized:

nativefemboy:

thartist72:

“In 2002, having spent more than three years in one residence for the first time in my life, I got called for jury duty. I show up on time, ready to serve. When we get to the voir dire, the lawyer says to me, “I see you’re an astrophysicist. What’s that?” I answer, “Astrophysics is the laws of physics, applied to the universe—the Big Bang, black holes, that sort of thing.” Then he asks, “What do you teach at Princeton?” and I say, “I teach a class on the evaluation of evidence and the relative unreliability of eyewitness testimony.” Five minutes later, I’m on the street. A few years later, jury duty again. The judge states that the defendant is charged with possession of 1,700 milligrams of cocaine. It was found on his body, he was arrested, and he is now on trial. This time, after the Q&A is over, the judge asks us whether there are any questions we’d like to ask the court, and I say, “Yes, Your Honor. Why did you say he was in possession of 1,700 milligrams of cocaine? That equals 1.7 grams. The ‘thousand’ cancels with the ‘milli-’ and you get 1.7 grams, which is less than the weight of a dime.” Again I’m out on the street.”

powerful Black Science Man

Exactly.

“I teach a class on the evaluation of evidence and the relative unreliability of eyewitness testimony.” Five minutes later, I’m on the street.
This is a good illustration of what’s wrong with the US criminal justice system.

I’m more struck by the second anecdote, in which he was evidently disqualified from jury duty for displaying the ability to do math.

prokopetz:

grrspit:

nessanotarized:

nativefemboy:

thartist72:

“In 2002, having spent more than three years in one residence for the first time in my life, I got called for jury duty. I show up on time, ready to serve. When we get to the voir dire, the lawyer says to me, “I see you’re an astrophysicist. What’s that?” I answer, “Astrophysics is the laws of physics, applied to the universe—the Big Bang, black holes, that sort of thing.” Then he asks, “What do you teach at Princeton?” and I say, “I teach a class on the evaluation of evidence and the relative unreliability of eyewitness testimony.” Five minutes later, I’m on the street.

A few years later, jury duty again. The judge states that the defendant is charged with possession of 1,700 milligrams of cocaine. It was found on his body, he was arrested, and he is now on trial. This time, after the Q&A is over, the judge asks us whether there are any questions we’d like to ask the court, and I say, “Yes, Your Honor. Why did you say he was in possession of 1,700 milligrams of cocaine? That equals 1.7 grams. The ‘thousand’ cancels with the ‘milli-’ and you get 1.7 grams, which is less than the weight of a dime.” Again I’m out on the street.”

powerful Black Science Man

Exactly.

“I teach a class on the evaluation of evidence and the relative unreliability of eyewitness testimony.” Five minutes later, I’m on the street.

This is a good illustration of what’s wrong with the US criminal justice system.

I’m more struck by the second anecdote, in which he was evidently disqualified from jury duty for displaying the ability to do math.

Filed under gotta love the justice system and by 'love' I mean 'loathe'

95 notes

beastlyart:

cearbhal:

erikawithac:

burningtulle:

burningtulle:

my random aesthetichell dryad lesbian babe

also classic siren teen mermaid

gosh wow, every single dream come true

bloody loser nightmare chic

yeah that sums it up

sad glam killer stripper
at first i was like no
then i was like
ok yeah that’s accurate

dark barroque desert pseudopunk

this is not inaccurate

bohemian carnival metal revolutionary

response train went something like ‘what’ ‘no’ ‘wait’ ‘okay, yes’ ‘awesome.’

13,615 notes

The claim that a company like McDonald’s can’t afford to pay wages over the minimum is absolutely insulting when you compare the salary of its CEO to one of its crew members.

I worked at a McDonald’s in New York over the summer and did a little math while I was there. In 2011, former McDonald’s CEO James Skinner made $8.75 million with compensation, according to data compiled by Bloomberg. In comparison, crew members made $7.25 an hour, for about $15,000 a year, if they stayed at the job year-round.

If you take Skinner’s total salary in 2011 and assume that he worked 40-hour week, he would have made $4,200 an hour. In one hour, he made 580 times more than the average McDonald’s worker. James Skinner made $33,600 a day, which is twice the salary tht a McDonald’s crew member makes in a year of full-time work.

Looking at it another way, the average worker would have to work for almost 600 years to make the salary that Skinner made in 2011. In one year, Skinner makes more than I could make in at least six lifetimes.

Samantha Valente | Maximum lies about the minimum wage (via america-wakiewakie)

(via thepaperplaneofexistence)

Filed under and this is why I'm a socialist

19,476 notes

Toad Words

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

Filed under stories