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new-ace-on-the-block:

diggly:

iamnofallenstar:

erikfuckinglensherr:

dullaidan:

what im saying is that bisexuals, pansexual, and asexuals should all join together so we can be in the fictitious trifecta. enough people will say we’re not real and we’ll all converge together in a massive, fierce mass only spoken of in myth.  dont come near us or you too will cease to exist

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can we include aromantics?

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triforce of fabulousness

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There we go, a shield to protect against the negativity

Character Art Meme!!! [OC/CHARACTER]

imagine-your-oc:

Send a number and I’ll draw my character:

  1. In what they normally wear
  2. In what I’m currently wearing
  3. In a school uniform
  4. In swimwear
  5. In underwear
  6. With no clothes on
  7. In winter clothes
  8. In fancy clothes
  9. Making 3 different expressions
  10. Standing on their hands
  11. With their favorite animal
  12. Hanging out with a friend
  13. Sitting on the couch
  14. Doing something they don’t normally do
  15. Eating
  16. Playing a sport
  17. Beaten up
  18. As a kid/adult
  19. Wearing a funny hat
  20. Sleeping
Anonymous

Anonymous asked:

please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.

miss-nerdgasmz:

grinningmoonlight:

mysticmoonhigh:

mamalovebone:

all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.

Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher. 

Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class  to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts. 

 We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day. 

Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it) 

That is, until Ms. Mormino came along. 

Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!” 

 Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance. 

 The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl. 

 At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up. 

Max. 

We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though. 

Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy. 

"I have a shoe." 

Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit. 

 A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem. 

"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him." 

Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away. 

A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside. 

"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone. 

 Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris. 

Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind. 

Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.

"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing. 

 ”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino. 

 ”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded. 

"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled. 

Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter. 

"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.

"Sit."

Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.

 Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino. 

And pissed right in his pants. 

The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb. 

We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided. 

Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed: 

 ”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!” 

 A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.

"That’s what she said."

Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.

FUCKING READ IT IT’S WORTH IT

I FUCKING BEG ALL OF YOU TO READ THIS

WRITE A BOOK

PSA for everyone writing term research papers right now

dynastylnoire:

carryonteamfreewill:

Mendeley is the greatest program ever

I want to weep with joy every time I use it

Just click a button when you pull up an article and it will automatically save it to your library

And cite it for you

And you can use it on your mobile devices

And it’s free

Just download it and you won’t have so many urges to kill everyone in sight while writing a research paper

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Thank you so much!

(Source: barelyfunctioningangel)

slipstreamborne:

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Today my inbox was graced by a particularly stubborn and “not racist" anon, prompting this comic.

Because whenever anyone seriously tries to argue that POC fans (which for the record, I’m white) and anyone drawing POC Homestucks and advocating for more representation of people of color in fandom and media are the ones inserting race/racism into the discussion—

y’know, racism, that system by which, among other things, mostly-arbitrary categories of biological characteristics and cultural stereotypes are used to justify gross social, economic, and political inequality to the benefit of those in power, and which kind of exists fucking everywhere and doesn’t need help getting inserted into almost every aspect of people’s lives—

I always have to wonder if we’re even reading the same comic.  Intentional analogy or not, that thematic ship has gone and fucking sailed. 

And as promised, both messages anon sent me after the last ask I answered are included here for general mockery.  Rest assured, they are as enlightened on issues of citizenship and how other people self-identify as they are on race as a whole:

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Good job anon what a convincing argument you’ve crafted. 

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