Untitled

Apr 15
rebelside:

dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING
I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious
I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.
FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD
YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too
like voldemort couldnt even do that
molly weasley couldnt do that
who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!
PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.
Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.
“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“
Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.
“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”
Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.
Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”
“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”
Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”
“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.
“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”
“What’s yer point?”
“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”
“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”
Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”
And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.
“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.
••••••••
Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.
“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.
“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”
“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”
Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”
“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”
Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.”
“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.
“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”
The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

Did I just read an amazing fanfiction based on a guy that has 2 seconds in a Harry Potter movie?

rebelside:

dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING

I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious

I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.

FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD

YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too

like voldemort couldnt even do that

molly weasley couldnt do that

who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!

PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.

Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.

“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“

Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.

“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”

Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.

Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”

“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”

Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”

“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.

“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”

“What’s yer point?”

“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”

“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”

Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”

And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.

“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.

••••••••

Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.

“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.

“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”

“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”

Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”

“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”

Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.

“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.

“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”

The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

Did I just read an amazing fanfiction based on a guy that has 2 seconds in a Harry Potter movie?

Apr 10

Disney Frozen’s “Let It Go” In 25 Languages: Behind the Mic

Apr 09

zecrazzie:

bbatchlocked:

mazarin221b:

yourblessingindisguise:

There’s a video of Mrs Hudson exotic dancing on Youtube? 

Well, they say all the girls like a soldier

CLICK THE FUCKING LINK

CLICK THE MOTHERFUCKING LINK

Mar 20

amethystdisaster:

vujon:

the legend of zelda ocarina of time in minecraft

HAHAHAHA WHEEE

Mar 19

sleep:

what a time to be alive

Mar 19
ent-e:

failcakes11:

may-i-pierce-the-all-time-veil:

thebobblehat:

judgebunnie:

meretrivia:

elfpen:

sleepy-street:

valerieparker:

cyprith:

mashyhead:

findchaos:

I wish this was exaggeration, I really do.

IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK 
TO JUST BUY A TOP THAT I CAN WEAR
THAT PEOPLE CAN’T SEE MY BRA THROUGH?

True story. Until I get the company shirt, my work uniform is a white polo. So I had to buy a white polo. Not a problem, right? Polos are just heavy jersey. Shouldn’t be an issue, even if it is white.
I went through four stores because every single white lady’s polo was see-through. See-through to the point where an onlooker could pinpoint the exact location of the bleach stain on my bra. 
So, in a quiet rage, I finally went to the men’s section. Wonder of wonders, the men’s polos were not see-through.
WHY? WHY IS MY PROFESSIONAL CLOTHING NOT HELD TO THE SAME STANDARDS OF OPAQUE-NESS AS MEN’S PROFESSIONAL CLOTHING?
fafghdfghdfghsdfhdfghdfghdf

I get most of my overshirts/jackets from the men’s section. For one, they have awesome jackets, and two— I have rather large breasts. I do not want something in cutsy glittery girly shit plastered across my chest, thank you. I get enough people that can’t look me in the eye. 
my kingdom for a leather jacket with a decent curved waist

Bless this post. 
Every fucking time I go out to look for a simple t-shirt, all I find are shirts that are super tight and uncomfortable for the sake of showing off your bust, have stupid sayings on them like “Lean, mean, sexy machine” (I have seriously seen shirts with those exact words), and have tiny fucking sleeves that don’t even cover your armpits (because we all have those days when we really don’t feel like shaving). Unfortunately for me, my mother thinks these shirts are cute and gets them for me constantly. :/

I will always buy my sweaters in the men’s section. Not only are they bigger and more comfortable, they’re actually made with better material. Apparently, you have to be male to merit fabric thick enough to actually keep you warm. Ever wonder why girls complain about being cold more often than guys? It’s not them. It’s their clothes.Women’s clothing is designed to be rubbish so that they can buy more all the time.Men’s clothes actually makes SENSE.I have so many feelings on this topic, I need to stop now before I break something.

And don’t forget actual, functioning pockets.

I could probably write a fucking dissertation around the bullshit of women’s clothing and how it’s pretty much useless and overpriced, and even then you can only something that’s an approximation of “a fucking simple t-shirt” where the male equivalent is functional, easily accessible, and a price quote that won’t bankrupt you.
It will have 3 appendixes devoted to, in order, “Stupid cuts for jeans and how they are impossible to figure out store to store, let alone style to style,” “Why do people think all jeans need to adhere to your body like skin tight spandex, for gods sake sometimes I just want to wear pants that I can actually move in,” and “Girls Have Stuff Too: A look at why shallow pockets are a joke and “fake” are the stupidest fashion choice ever made.”

Fake. Fucking. Pockets.

This is why I only wear band shirts honestly 

Hahahahaha I wear forever21 pants and my pockets work. The only sucky thing about wearing pants in woman’s sizes is that like, you can visibly see my flaccid penis without trying like omg

Well, for the record, the pockets usually are real, they’re just loosely sewn shut so that they can fold and stack more at once.. you just need to gently rip them open! But this post speaks to me on every level. I went to aeropostale once to buy a plaid shirt, and I tried on an extra large (I have pretty large breasts) shirt and it was too tight in the boobs and it was waaay too short… They should have called it a crop top. And if that wasn’t enough, it was $31. So I went into the mens section, and they were brighter, nicer colours, softer but thicker fabric, easier buttons, and I fit perfectly into a medium! On top of it all, it was $14. 
Evidently having a vagina is supposed to mean that I’m off oddly petite proportions and that they’re entitled to charge me more than twice the cost.

ent-e:

failcakes11:

may-i-pierce-the-all-time-veil:

thebobblehat:

judgebunnie:

meretrivia:

elfpen:

sleepy-street:

valerieparker:

cyprith:

mashyhead:

findchaos:

I wish this was exaggeration, I really do.

IS IT SO MUCH TO ASK 

TO JUST BUY A TOP THAT I CAN WEAR

THAT PEOPLE CAN’T SEE MY BRA THROUGH?

True story. Until I get the company shirt, my work uniform is a white polo. So I had to buy a white polo. Not a problem, right? Polos are just heavy jersey. Shouldn’t be an issue, even if it is white.

I went through four stores because every single white lady’s polo was see-through. See-through to the point where an onlooker could pinpoint the exact location of the bleach stain on my bra. 

So, in a quiet rage, I finally went to the men’s section. Wonder of wonders, the men’s polos were not see-through.

WHY? WHY IS MY PROFESSIONAL CLOTHING NOT HELD TO THE SAME STANDARDS OF OPAQUE-NESS AS MEN’S PROFESSIONAL CLOTHING?

fafghdfghdfghsdfhdfghdfghdf

I get most of my overshirts/jackets from the men’s section. For one, they have awesome jackets, and two— I have rather large breasts. I do not want something in cutsy glittery girly shit plastered across my chest, thank you. I get enough people that can’t look me in the eye. 

my kingdom for a leather jacket with a decent curved waist

Bless this post. 

Every fucking time I go out to look for a simple t-shirt, all I find are shirts that are super tight and uncomfortable for the sake of showing off your bust, have stupid sayings on them like “Lean, mean, sexy machine” (I have seriously seen shirts with those exact words), and have tiny fucking sleeves that don’t even cover your armpits (because we all have those days when we really don’t feel like shaving). Unfortunately for me, my mother thinks these shirts are cute and gets them for me constantly. :/

I will always buy my sweaters in the men’s section. Not only are they bigger and more comfortable, they’re actually made with better material. Apparently, you have to be male to merit fabric thick enough to actually keep you warm. Ever wonder why girls complain about being cold more often than guys? It’s not them. It’s their clothes.

Women’s clothing is designed to be rubbish so that they can buy more all the time.

Men’s clothes actually makes SENSE.

I have so many feelings on this topic, I need to stop now before I break something.

And don’t forget actual, functioning pockets.

I could probably write a fucking dissertation around the bullshit of women’s clothing and how it’s pretty much useless and overpriced, and even then you can only something that’s an approximation of “a fucking simple t-shirt” where the male equivalent is functional, easily accessible, and a price quote that won’t bankrupt you.

It will have 3 appendixes devoted to, in order, “Stupid cuts for jeans and how they are impossible to figure out store to store, let alone style to style,” “Why do people think all jeans need to adhere to your body like skin tight spandex, for gods sake sometimes I just want to wear pants that I can actually move in,” and “Girls Have Stuff Too: A look at why shallow pockets are a joke and “fake” are the stupidest fashion choice ever made.”

Fake. Fucking. Pockets.

This is why I only wear band shirts honestly 

Hahahahaha I wear forever21 pants and my pockets work. The only sucky thing about wearing pants in woman’s sizes is that like, you can visibly see my flaccid penis without trying like omg

Well, for the record, the pockets usually are real, they’re just loosely sewn shut so that they can fold and stack more at once.. you just need to gently rip them open! But this post speaks to me on every level. I went to aeropostale once to buy a plaid shirt, and I tried on an extra large (I have pretty large breasts) shirt and it was too tight in the boobs and it was waaay too short… They should have called it a crop top. And if that wasn’t enough, it was $31. So I went into the mens section, and they were brighter, nicer colours, softer but thicker fabric, easier buttons, and I fit perfectly into a medium! On top of it all, it was $14. 

Evidently having a vagina is supposed to mean that I’m off oddly petite proportions and that they’re entitled to charge me more than twice the cost.

Mar 08
Mar 08

Facebook vs Tumblr - Frozen edition

chanson-egocentrique:

Someone you don’t know adds you on Facebook:

image

Someone you don’t know follows you on Tumblr:

image

Someone sends you a Facebook message:

image

Someone writes in your Tumblr askbox:

image

Loses a friend on Facebook:

image

Loses a follower on Tumblr:

image

Error on Facebook:

image

Error on Tumblr:

image

Scrolling through Facebook:

image

Scrolling through Tumblr:

image

Facebook at 2am:

image

Tumblr at 2am:

image

Someone sends you a dirty message on Facebook:

image

Someone sends you a dirty message on Tumblr:

image

[]

Mar 08

gaytropolis:

this needs to be in every art history books in 10 years

Mar 07

panic! at the disco + music videos