So I work at an ice cream store, and this girl walked in today and quietly asked me who the man behind the counter was. I responded that he was my manager.
"Oh, he’s cute. What’s his name?"
"Justin, but fair warning, he plays for the, uh, other team."
And I swear to fucking god four people (including myself) yelled ‘WILDCATS’ so loud she spilled her drink.
And I thought he was gay
I was just on the goodreads page for Kingkiller Volume 3: Doors of Stone, where it magically already has 5 stars, when I found this gem from Patrick Rothfuss himself:
" While it’s nice to see folks out there giving this book five stars, and in some cases even reviewing it, I’ll admit that I’m kinda puzzled.
After thinking it over for a while, I’ve realized there’s only one explanation for this:
Time travelers love my books.
This is strangely reassuring, as it lets me know that, eventually, I do finish my revisions, and the book turns out good enough so that I still have a following out there in the big ball of wibbly-wobbly…. timey-wimey…. stuff that I like to think of as the future.
I would also like to say, future readers, that I appreciate your taking time to read and review my books. It’s really flattering knowing that even with time-travel technology at your disposal, you’d rather read my stuff and mention it here on goodreads, rather than, say, hunt dinosaurs, get drunk with da Vinci, or pants Hitler.
Secondly, I’d like to say if you’re The Doctor, and you’re reading this, I would make an excellent traveling companion. I know you normally tend to hang out with pretty young women and robot dogs. And honestly? I respect that.
Still, I bring certain things to the table. Humor, witty banter, and a beard that will allow me to blend in seamlessly with any pre-industrial Germanic culture. I’m also an excellent kisser and play a mean game of Settlers of Catan.
Just throwing it out there.
Lastly, if any of you happen to have a digital copy of the book you’d like to e-mail me, I’d really appreciate it. I’d love to see the five-star version of the book, because right now, the one I’m toiling away at is about a three an a half-in my opinion. It would save me a lot of work if I could just skip to the end and publish it.
A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.
Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)
When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.
Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.
Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.
Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.
Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.
— 'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via queenofeden)
This reminds me of high school when I stabbed a guy with my pencil. He sat behind me in math class, and would touch my back and shoulders during class even though I constsntly told him to stop and keep his hands off me. He thought my anger was funny. He would laugh and stop only to start up again. I tried telling the teacher, but this was her first year teaching and she only had so much power getting students to listen to her. Eventually I got so fed up that I whirrled around and blindly jabbed at him with my pencil. I got his hand, I did not get in trouble, He never touched me again.(via sparklingpeaches)
I think it’s safe to say that the Cosmos fandom has resurrected and made its presence known after tonight!
— Neil deGrasse Tyson, Cosmos: A Spacetime Odyssey (Ep 1: Standing Up in the Milky Way)
The fact that Neil Tyson was standing in the same place as Carl Sagan shot the original Cosmos, as he was about to get into talking about Carl Sagan, just sold the entire show.
Cosmos was amazing. Such a beautiful tribute to, and continuation of, Carl Sagan’s work. Fantastic. Watch it.