Monsters' Queen

jaclcfrost:

and when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for awhile. because you’re evil. and you smiling like that generally doesn’t indicate anything good. i wouldn’t even call that smiling. it’s more like. smirking

super-highschool-level-homestuck:

iprayforangels:

plushestrumpest:

30secondstocalifornia:

wingscanspeak:

zorobro:

wingscannotspeak:

peetasboxers:

kissyourneck-slitmythroat:

I showed this post to my boyfriend and he tried to take his shirt off like a girl and 

uh

yeah

Out of the 82k notes my post got this is by far the best comment holy shit thank u for being u

So i tried it both ways and uh

i mean how do you do the first one without pulling out all your hair?

this made me laugh really hard….

and it made me realize that girls and boys pull their shirt off differently. /amazed

but seriously I think girls just do the cross arm thing because of HAIR like demonstrated 

So one year, one URL change, and a hair cut later, I decide to try again… FOR SCIENCE! 

Its not science unless you write it down so 

First method:

image
Well done, i guess…

Second:

image
I fucked up

Girls… how?

I DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW WE CAN HAVE SUCH DIFFERENT WAYS OF TAKING OFF SHIRTS AND SO MUCH DIFFICULTY DOING IT THE OTHER WAY

I FIGURED IT OUT!!!!!

It’s all in the way that girl/boys shirts are made.

Girls shirts have less armpit room then boy’s do and are generally shorter so pulling it off over your head is more practical because by lifting your arms all the way up you make enough room for the sleeves to just slip off.

Boys shirts have more room and are generally longer so it is easy to slip them off over your head.

but if you take a girls shirt off like a boys shirt you will get your arms caught because there isn’t much armpit space.

and if you take a boys shirt off like a girls shit you will still have your head in it when you’ve lifted your arms all the way up because of the shirt’s length.

It has nothing to do with us. It is entirely to do with how our shirts are made. I figured it out for you. YOU’RE WELCOME!

bless you

universityofhyrule:

It’s not the biggest collection in the world, and the rarest game he has tops out at around $600, a far cry from the thousands of dollars some rare games are reported to be worth.

So what makes his collection so special? It’s all about the aesthetics, dude. Norton’s 5,200-game collection is meticulously alphabetized and displayed so everyone can enjoy it in all its spectacular glory. “I suppose I’d have to consider myself a Nintendo fanboy. I grew up in the 1980s. Nintendo and Mario was everywhere, there was no escaping it,” Norton recalled. “From Sunday morning cartoons, cereal, underwear, bed sheets and lunch boxes.

Nintendo makes fantastic games and has enduring franchises. It is without a doubt my favorite company.” “I’ve acquired a ton of games, but I don’t feel like I’ve spent a ton. Most people don’t realize that many of these classic games can be found for $1 - $4 each,” he dished. “It’s all about finding the right deal at the right time. Hunting out your local area. Finding extras games for cheap and trading online.

To me collecting has become a fun game in and of itself.” “I’d say I have most of the rare games for most systems,” he went on to say. “To be honest it may be easier to mention the hard-to-find games I don’t have.

For the NES I own a complete licensed set, except for the very hard-to-find Stadium Events. My Super Nintendo, Nintendo 64 and Gamecube sets are complete as well, except for the two mail-order Super Nintendo competition carts. I also own a complete set for Virtual Boy, Sega Game Gear and Sega 32x. I’m working on finishing up my Sega Master System, Game Boy and Game Boy Color sets.” X

I’d never ever be sad again

licensetocannibalize:

→ btvs/hannibal [1/?]

In which Buffy meets Hannibal, figures out he eats people and then decides to outpun him.

amazing

politeyeti:

The two men had been dancing around each other—only half figuratively—for the better part of ten minutes, give or take. Susan wasn’t particularly keeping track, and time was so hard to track some of the time, anyway.

It had begun with a creaking noise, followed by a small explosion, and then a rather larger explosion that contained a tall man in a fez and a bowtie, all perilously close to the good china. The man had come with a box, deep blue, which seemed to have been thefted from a police force somewhere*, out of which tumbled a tallish woman with the sort of irritated smile that marked her as a potential ally.

"Yes, yes, fine, you’re a doctor, that’s delightful, but Doctor Who?” Lobsang was significantly more frustrated about the sudden appearance of a box barely large enough to hold two people (and the requisite pair) than she would have credited.

The man in the fez threw up his arms, exasperated. “No, just The Doctor. And anyway. You haven’t said who you are yet, though I do appreciate the whole not actively threatening things and I am rather sorry for dropping in on you like this. Very inconvenient of me. Very rude. I do mean it. But, see, this is definitely not the place I was trying to get to and I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d just let us get back into the box. And just. You know. Go.” He flicked his hands, a shooing motion that was simultaneously eloquent and unhelpful. “Though, forgive the curiosity, but where are we? And who, precisely, are you?”

Something in Lobsang’s expression shifted. Madmen who turned up out of thin air without permission were really very rude, and best to be startled. “Well. I suppose you could say that I’m Time.”

The volley of “What?” and “What, what?” and “What do you mean Time?” and “What do you mean the Doctor?” and pointless arguing about archetypes and narratives went on for some minutes before Susan noticed that the irritated woman was outright laughing, now. Not loudly, just behind her hand. Their eyes met, and both women grinned. 

And that was how Susan Sto Helit learned about interdimensional (accidental) travel over tea in her kitchen.

*Though clearly not Ankh-Morpork, as it was both reasonably clean and in repair.

hahahaha

ceruleancynic:

If you’re ever trying to wrap your head around a concept that’s juuuust not making sense, try writing out what about it you don’t understand in preparation for asking someone for help. 

It’s funny how often you realize you’ve just answered your own question, worked it out on your own while trying to explain what you don’t get. 

deliverusfromsburb:

Ok guys. Here goes. I am going to attempt to divert concern from Dave Strider, who the fandom seems to think is marked for extra-special death, to John Egbert, who actually might be. This is based primarily on character and thematic readings, which of course may be interpreted in different ways by different people. As you know, I am not Andrew Hussie. Thus, I obviously could be wrong. I don’t know what’s going to happen or what is intended. But allow me to make my case.

First of all, it would make no thematic sense to kill Dave forever.

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Disliking hip-hop doesn’t make you a racist any more than liking hip-hop makes you not a racist, and I’m sure there are plenty of Stormfront enthusiasts with Rick Ross in their iTunes. If you don’t like Jay-Z because you just don’t like the way he sounds, or you’re sick of his cloying ubiquity, or you wish he’d talk about something other than where he’s from for five seconds—hey, I’m not mad, I don’t like Bruce Springsteen for the same reasons. But if you don’t like rap music—a genre that contains multitudes—because of a self-satisfied moralism, or because you’re scared of it, or because you wish those people would stop talking about their problems and get out of your television and radio and kids’ bedrooms: well.

And I’m not just talking about the American right, I’m talking about all the well-meaning white folks who’ve told me how they want to like Lil Wayne but lo, the misogyny, the violence, the drugs. But, but, I’ll say: Bob Dylan aced misogyny; the Rolling Stones sang about violence; the Velvet Underground knew their way around some drugs. Yeeeah, but it’s different, they’ll say, elongating that “yeah” with conspiratorial inflection: you know what I mean. Yeah, I know exactly what you mean.

Rap music doesn’t get unarmed kids shot to death, “it’s different” does. “It’s different” infuses “these assholes always get away” and gives solace to people who hear that sound bite and nod their empty heads in agreement. “It’s different” is the same logic that suggests a teenager’s skin color combined with the music he listened to means he had it coming, and it’s the same logic that lets a bunch of people feign outrage over a teenager’s use of the n-word to describe himself when they’re really just outraged that he beat them to the punch.

“It’s different” makes me shake with anger because it turns music into a dog-whistle to justify the murder of a kid who doesn’t seem all that “different” from me was when I was his age, not that different at all. I liked Skittles and hoodies and weed, too. And yeah, I’m white and never worried about getting shot for any of it, which is only the most loathsome excuse for not identifying with someone that I can possibly think of.

The cosine of 1/x is undefined at x=0. It is also visually disturbing near x=0.
Engineering calculus professor (via mathprofessorquotes)