Category: Uncategorized

schmergo:

What she says: I’m fine

What she means: Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Grim-visaged war hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;

And now, instead of mounting barded steeds

To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,

He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber

To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,

Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;

I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty

To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;

I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,

Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,

Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time

Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,

And that so lamely and unfashionable

That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;

Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,

Have no delight to pass away the time,

Unless to spy my shadow in the sun

And descant on mine own deformity.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,

To entertain these fair well-spoken days,

I am determined to prove a villain

And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous,

By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams,

To set my brother Clarence and the king

In deadly hate the one against the other.

And if King Edward be as true and just

As I am subtle, false and treacherous,

This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,

About a prophecy, which says that ‘G’

Of Edward’s heirs the murderer shall be.

Dive, thoughts, down to my soul– here

Clarence comes.

kuttithevangu:

My favorite lifehack is I’m never too polite to take leftovers from any event. “Please take leftovers,” the hostess says, and everyone diffidently murmurs something about the size of their fridge, but I am already sweeping an entire basket of bagels into my tote bag. I gather there may be some unspoken rule of upperclass etiquette that stands in people’s way but listen. Break free of your chains

robotmango:

me, crouched down in front of my tomato plants, examining a pattern of insect bites on their lower leaves: i’m going to fucking kill whoever did this. i’m going to kill them for you. don’t worry, babies. I’m going to murder every single son of a bitch who ever got a mouthful of you. they’ll die screaming

my neighbor, who i did not realize was also outside, standing behind the fence: oh! okay. you’re talking to the plants. okay.

marisatomay:

marisatomay:

marisatomay:

I was really out here thinking I stayed up until 3am and just lost track of time but it turns out that ben franklin himself broke into my house and personally moved my phone’s clock an hour forward like an asshole

anyone who replies with some bs about how “ben franklin didn’t actually create daylight savings time” or whatever should be less concerned with my historical inaccuracy and more concerned with someone who’s been dead for 200 years pulling a b&e

shit lads benjy got em

tosfumarewords:

““My cousin Helen, who is in her 90s now, was in the Warsaw ghetto during World War II. She and a bunch of the girls in the ghetto had to do sewing each day. And if you were found with a book, it was an automatic death penalty. She had gotten hold of a copy of ‘Gone With the Wind’, and she would take three or four hours out of her sleeping time each night to read. And then, during the hour or so when they were sewing the next day, she would tell them all the story. These girls were risking certain death for a story. And when she told me that story herself, it actually made what I do feel more important. Because giving people stories is not a luxury. It’s actually one of the things that you live and die for.””

—  Neil Gaiman (via lupanthropy)