Tuesday, May 25th, 2021


Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/652162746880819200.


Friday, November 6th, 2020



I repeat


We did it! We finally got some normal ass colour mixing on a show! We’re officially not the third world anymore!

Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/634085848922701824.

fashion-runways: BIBIAN BLUE Butterflies Collection if you want…

Tuesday, June 9th, 2020


BIBIAN BLUE Butterflies Collection
if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/620476907681726464.

ksjanes: “Bridges symbolize change and flexibility! They show…

Tuesday, April 28th, 2020


“Bridges symbolize change and flexibility! They show us this simple philosophy: When you are on one side, you can easily move to the other side!”
― Mehmet Murat ildan

Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/616671944077705216.

themerrywriter: write-it-motherfuckers: undead0relived: youcantseebutimmakingaface: studioprey: …

Thursday, June 6th, 2019









When I was nine, possibly ten, an author came to our school to talk about writing. His name was Hugh Scott, and I doubt he’s known outside of Scotland. And even then I haven’t seen him on many shelves in recent years in Scotland either. But he wrote wonderfully creepy children’s stories, where the supernatural was scary, but it was the mundane that was truly terrifying. At least to little ten year old me. It was Scooby Doo meets Paranormal Activity with a bonny braw Scottish-ness to it that I’d never experienced before.

I remember him as a gangling man with a wiry beard that made him look older than he probably was, and he carried a leather bag filled with paper. He had a pen too that was shaped like a carrot, and he used it to scribble down notes between answering our (frankly disinterested) questions. We had no idea who he was you see, no one had made an effort to introduce us to his books. We were simply told one morning, ‘class 1b, there is an author here to talk to you about writing’, and this you see was our introduction to creative writing. We’d surpassed finger painting and macaroni collages. It was time to attempt Words That Were Untrue.

You could tell from the look on Mrs M’s face she thought it was a waste of time. I remember her sitting off to one side marking papers while this tall man sat down on our ridiculously short chairs, and tried to talk to us about what it meant to tell a story. She wasn’t big on telling stories, Mrs M. She was also one of the teachers who used to take my books away from me because they were “too complicated” for me, despite the fact that I was reading them with both interest and ease. When dad found out he hit the roof. It’s the one and only time he ever showed up to the school when it wasn’t parents night or the school play. After that she just left me alone, but she made it clear to my parents that she resented the fact that a ten year old used words like ‘ubiquitous’ in their essays. Presumably because she had to look it up.

Anyway, Mr Scott, was doing his best to talk to us while Mrs M made scoffing noises from her corner every so often, and you could just tell he was deflating faster than a bouncy castle at a knife sharpening party, so when he asked if any of us had any further questions and no one put their hand up I felt awful. I knew this was not only insulting but also humiliating, even if we were only little children. So I did the only thing I could think of, put my hand up and said “Why do you write?”

I’d always read about characters blinking owlishly, but I’d never actually seen it before. But that’s what he did, peering down at me from behind his wire rim spectacles and dragging tired fingers through his curly beard. I don’t think he expected anyone to ask why he wrote stories. What he wrote about, and where he got his ideas from maybe, and certainly why he wrote about ghosts and other creepy things, but probably not why do you write. And I think he thought perhaps he could have got away with “because it’s fun, and learning is fun, right kids?!”, but part of me will always remember the way the world shifted ever so slightly as it does when something important is about to happen, and this tall streak of a man looked down at me, narrowed his eyes in an assessing manner and said, “Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

I nodded, very seriously in the way children do, and knew this to be a truth. In my limited experience at that point, I knew certain people (with a sidelong glance to Mrs M who was in turn looking at me as though she’d just known it’d be me that type of question) didn’t like fiction. At least certain types of fiction. I knew for instance that Mrs M liked to read Pride and Prejudice on her lunch break but only because it was sensible fiction, about people that could conceivably be real. The idea that one could not relate to a character simply because they had pointy ears or a jet pack had never occurred to me, and the fact that it’s now twenty years later and people are still arguing about the validity of genre fiction is beyond me, but right there in that little moment, I knew something important had just transpired, with my teacher glaring at me, and this man who told stories to live beginning to smile. After that the audience turned into a two person conversation, with gradually more and more of my classmates joining in because suddenly it was fun. Mrs M was pissed and this bedraggled looking man who might have been Santa after some serious dieting, was starting to enjoy himself. As it turned out we had all of his books in our tiny corner library, and in the words of my friend Andrew “hey there’s a giant spider fighting a ghost on this cover! neat!” and the presentation devolved into chaos as we all began reading different books at once and asking questions about each one. “Does she live?”— “What about the talking trees” —“is the ghost evil?” —“can I go to the bathroom, Miss?” —“Wow neat, more spiders!”

After that we were supposed to sit down, quietly (glare glare) and write a short story to show what we had learned from listening to Mr Scott. I wont pretend I wrote anything remotely good, I was ten and all I could come up with was a story about a magic carrot that made you see words in the dark, but Mr Scott seemed to like it. In fact he seemed to like all of them, probably because they were done with such vibrant enthusiasm in defiance of the people who didn’t want us to.

The following year, when I’d moved into Mrs H’s class—the kind of woman that didn’t take away books from children who loved to read and let them write nonsense in the back of their journals provided they got all their work done—a letter arrived to the school, carefully wedged between several copies of a book which was unheard of at the time, by a new author known as J.K. Rowling. Mrs H remarked that it was strange that an author would send copies of books that weren’t even his to a school, but I knew why he’d done it. I knew before Mrs H even read the letter.

Because words are important. Words are magical. They’re powerful. And that power ought to be shared. There’s no petty rivalry between story tellers, although there’s plenty who try to insinuate it. There’s plenty who try to say some words are more valuable than others, that somehow their meaning is more important because of when it was written and by whom. Those are the same people who laud Shakespeare from the heavens but refuse to acknowledge that the quote “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them“ is a dick joke.

And although Mr Scott seems to have faded from public literary consumption, I still think about him. I think about his stories, I think about how he recommended another author and sent copies of her books because he knew our school was a puritan shithole that fought against the Wrong Type of Wordes and would never buy them into the library otherwise. But mostly I think about how he looked at a ten year old like an equal and told her words and important, and people will try to keep you from writing them—so write them anyway.

*sobs for like the umpteenth time this day and reblogs the fuck out of this*

this is it:

“Because people told me not to, and words are important.”

Please please please read this all the way through. I promise you it’s worth it. If you have ever aspired to write, or you have a love of stories and storytelling, this is important.


Here he is.

Books are linked within the page.


Not a prompt my dears, but an important read all the same.

Gonna buy all this mfs books for my friends kids 💓

Reposted from https://lies.tumblr.com/post/185412419356.

dumbbirdsfieldguide: Pygmy ButtmunchA boring looking bird with…

Thursday, August 23rd, 2018


Pygmy Buttmunch
A boring looking bird with beige underparts, and slate colored back. These tiny fucks form little chatty flocks during the winter, who will all try to cram themselves into the same stupid cavity to roost at night.

Size: Compared to other nuthatches, the pygmy is small. Duh.

Reposted from http://lies.tumblr.com/post/177323585106.

avatarmerida: Happy pride month to the tiny cowboy and tiny Trojan man from Night at the Museum

Tuesday, June 5th, 2018


Happy pride month to the tiny cowboy and tiny Trojan man from Night at the Museum

Reposted from http://lies.tumblr.com/post/174594691911.

amuzed1: candiikismet: jc-drawings: royal-piece-of-shit: carm3…

Sunday, September 17th, 2017










…you’re lucky I’m a stubborn asshole because these took way longer to make than I’d like to admit.

holy fucking shit

did you just gif the whole fucking movies

Fucking genius




My childhood in one gifset 💜

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poebodysnerfect: A ghost on a murderous rampage? Are you guys…

Friday, June 30th, 2017


A ghost on a murderous rampage? Are you guys listening to yourselves? Because you sound cray.

Poe Party rewatch [80/-]

Chapter 9: The Sleeper

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Me waiting for the Shipwrecked Kickstarter to post

Tuesday, June 6th, 2017


Reposted from http://ift.tt/2rwV7DA.


Saturday, April 15th, 2017



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jtotheizzoe: kenobi-wan-obi: bouncingdodecahedrons: Carl…

Thursday, April 6th, 2017




Carl telling us how (not) to science.

“conclusion: dinosaurs” is still my favorite rebuttal to just about anything tbh.

Second perhaps only to “Therefore: aliens”

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jaynaneeya:Clue references in Poe Party (48/?): Someone rubbing…

Friday, March 31st, 2017


Clue references in Poe Party (48/?): Someone rubbing his/her nose in the background

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yulinkuang: lareinecersei: Westworld Hosts + name…

Tuesday, October 18th, 2016



Westworld Hosts + name meaning 

excuse me I think you mean 

T E D D Y 
English – 
fluffy bear who exists for comfort and deserves NONE OF THIS

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floralls: Bokehlicious Roses by UtArt

Saturday, October 15th, 2016

by UtArt

by UtArt

by UtArt

by UtArt

by UtArt

by UtArt


Bokehlicious Roses by UtArt

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The wind will do with it as it does. All you can do is throw the…

Thursday, October 13th, 2016

The wind will do with it as it does. All you can do is throw the kite in the air.

Lin Manuel Miranda

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winstonschurchill: When H.G. goes off on his own and Lenore insists upon going with him.

Monday, October 3rd, 2016


When H.G. goes off on his own and Lenore insists upon going with him.

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paxamericana: ah so maybe that’s why this place increasingly…

Monday, July 18th, 2016


ah so maybe that’s why this place increasingly feels like it was written by the same dudes that make illegal russian gambling sites

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thalassarche: Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Regulus calendula) – photo…

Monday, April 18th, 2016


Ruby-crowned Kinglet (Regulus calendula) – photo by Jerry Ting

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flacarica: antiandrogen: tahreza: sge was readyvghjk this…

Monday, April 18th, 2016




sge was readyvghjk

this was me working at lush


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