an important conclusion reached by chloe and i today while watching henry iv pt. 1:
we think of shakespeare as writing in a Dignified Manner up in his room with a quill and looking very serious and occasionally getting writer’s block and staring dramatically out the window as he pens kingly speeches
but it is probably likely that a good 50% of the gorier ones were written in a tavern with kit & ben looking over his shoulder going “oh my god oh my god bill put him in a pie OH MY GOD NOW MAKE HER EAT THE PIE, oh my god ‘OUT YOU MAD-HEADED APE’ that’s fucking HILARIOUS, do a dick joke next, somebody order another beer”
“Look, without our stories, without the true nature and reality of who we are as People of Color, nothing about fanboy or fangirl culture would make sense. What I mean by that is: if it wasn’t for race, X-Men doesn’t sense. If it wasn’t for the history of breeding human beings in the New World through chattel slavery, Dune doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the history of colonialism and imperialism, Star Wars doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t for the extermination of so many Indigenous First Nations, most of what we call science fiction’s contact stories doesn’t make sense. Without us as the secret sauce, none of this works, and it is about time that we understood that we are the Force that holds the Star Wars universe together. We’re the Prime Directive that makes Star Trek possible, yeah. In the Green Lantern Corps, we are the oath. We are all of these things—erased, and yet without us—we are essential.”—
the funniest part of macbeth is when the soldiers all cut a branch off a tree to hold in front of them while they march towards macbeth’s castle in hopes that he will somehow think they are all trees and not an army
theyve started selling lucky charms at tescos and ive never had any american cereal before and it has little tiny marshmallows in it and im haivng heart palpitations this is so sugary my body isnt used to this ive been living off cornflaeks for the last 16 years why are there marshmallows in my cereal who came up with this idea i feel like a bag of sugar just jizzed in my veins there are sweets in my fucking cereal is that even legal im so confused
reverse hades/persephone, where the young daughter of summer uses plant magic to ensnare the lord of darkness and keep him prisoner in a beautiful garden above ground. Eventually, enchanted by her cleverness and wild youth he agrees to eat six pomegranate seeds and stay with her for half of every year.
I think that if voldemort really wanted to kill harry potter the night the spell didn’t work on him he could’ve just picked him up and thrown him out a window given the fact that he was a one year old infant
it’s really interesting how so many mythological creatures that are exclusively female (harpies, banshees, sirens) are described as having really piercing or unpleasant or otherwise notable voices? sirens kill men with their songs, banshees shriek when someone is about to die, harpies are awful cawing bird-women
(watch out for the girls who know how to make noise; we are monsters)
“There’s a man. Imagine him. He’s leaning on a fence, shirtless and weary. He seems wise near the eyes but his impatient feet suggest insidiousness. He’s marked with dried mud and maybe some very deep but quickly healing cuts—from the tree branches, most likely, or perhaps the birds.
OK, I’m not telling you the whole truth—it was definitely the birds. Imagine these cuts and scratches, dried and brittle now, but tender to the touch. He is certain he did not offend the birds but he is uncertain whether his complacency was misconstrued as equal to said offence. Picture this. Picture the man leaning on the criss-crossing metal wires, waiting. The birds are gone—but other things are coming. He doesn’t know specifically what, but he knows it’ll come for him. You know this too, because I have told you. The man says… nothing.
There’s never not something that has been displaced, marginalised. There’s never not something that, when feeling pressed to the wall, to a place with no room left to run, gathers its numbers, gathers its forces, and turns savagely on its oppressor. Turns viciously, and without inhibition, even on those who merely look like its oppressor. Do you catch my meaning? Can you imagine the scene I am explaining? How much of the world makes sense to you? What does it mean to be a hero? To be a human?
The man thinks about his heart. It beats, it beats normally. Earlier, it did not beat normally. Think about your own heart. Is it beating normally?
Listen. I’ll give you a long moment.
How is your heart? Do you remember the man, the one on the fence, shirtless and scarred, with the normally beating heart? He’s not real.
Take him out of the story, but leave the story. Take him out. Leave the story.
Do you catch my meaning? Do you?
This has been traffic.”—Cecil Baldwin, Welcome to Night Vale #36, “Missing” (via elucipher)
jeez i would love to order that thing online, but i don’t know what size to order it in because women’s clothing sizes are determined by the alignments of the planets in relation to the fuck you galaxy
“I have no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with greater energy, in proportion to the increase of pain.”—Heathcliff, Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (via stannisbaratheon)