reblog the Don Draper of getting a job he’s unqualified for and you’ll have 10 years of getting jobs you’re unqualified for
trying on a metaphor
tumblr dot com
hello vonnie

No title available
styofa doing anything
sheepfilms
YOU ARE THE REASON
KIROKAZE
Today's Document

titsay
h

JBB: An Artblog!
cherry valley forever

blake kathryn
Not today Justin
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
taylor price
wallacepolsom

ellievsbear
todays bird
seen from Chile

seen from Singapore
seen from United States
seen from Ecuador
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Lithuania
seen from Mexico
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Poland
@threeupandtwoacross
reblog the Don Draper of getting a job he’s unqualified for and you’ll have 10 years of getting jobs you’re unqualified for
I’m gonna apply for a job at Gordon Ramsay new restaurant and I’m gonna get it
I submitted my application and resume
I GOT THE FUCKING INTERVIEW
My interview is in a few hours. I got this but wish me luck
I GOT THE FUCKING JOB
reblog for good luck
I’ve never been so satisfied watching a bearded dragon eat blueberries. 12/10 must watch!
bucky, seeing someone in the distance singlehandedly taking on thanos: what a fucking idiot
bucky, .00000021 seconds later and about to have an aneurysm: wait that’s MY fucking idiot
i crave simple things in life like fresh sourdough bread with a shallow but ornate dipping bowl containing olive oil/balsamic/fresh herbs on a moonlit evening overlooking the sea in some fuckall, Mediterranean location where i’m left alone to eat my bread and let the iodine from the sea air heal my torn up spirit & also six hundred million dollars in unmarked duffle bags stuffed into a swiss bank account box i receive for completing a job of dubious morality
No offense but I want to fall in love with someone who wants to fall in love with me
I just wish I could be someone’s first choice, someone’s favourite.
that little chunk of chocolate at the bottom of the drumstick cone reblog if you agree
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSS
You know who’s gonna give you everything? Yourself.
Diane Von Furstenberg (via stuffgurlswant)
When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.
I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.
You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.
Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”
I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”
I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”
After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.
The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.
Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.
And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.
*sobs for like the umpteenth time this day and reblogs the fuck out of this*
out of all the posts on this site meant to help people get and keep the urge to write, i think this one speaks the most to me. because of all the voices saying your writing is dumb, one of the most insidious is the one in your own head.
i think i finally have something to fight back with now
“Why do you write?”
“Because people told me not to[.]”
Hugh Scott won the Whitbread Prize for “Why Weeps the Brogan?”
Amazon.co.uk has very little available from him, but making “Likely Stories” better known seems a good idea.
I’m certainly getting a copy for the workbook shelf…
Does anyone else feel like they really missed an opportunity by not having leias line be "a new hope" at the end of rogue one
Candacy Taylor, Scholar-in-Residence, Schomburg Center, New York and contributors on the Green Book Guide.
Candacy is one of a growing number of writers, artists and filmmakers who have rediscovered the Green Book. ~ The Travel Show (New York City)
Correct.
Very correct.
Omg.
Can you believe 14 year old azula delivered the best line of any villain ever “don’t flatter yourself. You were never even a player” iconic
Actually the best line of any villain ever was, “Maybe you should worry less about the tides, who’ve already made up their mind about killing you, and worry more about me, who’s still mulling it over.” Also spoken by Azula, age 14.
Maybe we’ll meet again, when we’re slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.
(via bl-ossomed)
yes
Lmmmmaaaaooo
BUT HE DIED THE SAME DAY HURRICANE SANDY STARTED
OH SHIT
legendary