someone snapchat me! olivia-harvey
i'm in heaps of fandoms but the main ones i reblog are Doctor Who, Sherlock, Harry Potter and Supernatural.
feel free to send me an ask and talk to me! :) xo
how does one tell a boy that one likes him
I am a boy and have a foolproof plan for this:
- text them and start playing one of those 20q games
- if they start being a dodgy fella drop em
- if they ask “You like anyone?”
reply Yeah, you.
- If they give you a negative reply sayin they dont like you back then just correct yourself to “*Yeah, you?”
dude that is genius
slow clappin’ it out.
why none of tumblr’s users are ready for parenting
one time i got a sample from the tea store at the mall and as i walked away the guy said “tea you later” and then his coworker smacked him
if a 99 pound person eats 1 pound of nachos that person is 1% nacho
Im going to bed.
i always seem to follow all the nice people/ nice parts of the fandom
the bad parts of the fandom seem like some far off land that i only hear about through folklore and the tales of swarthy fishermen
i am reminded that english is a flawed language every time I am forced to use “that that” in a sentence
Fuck special snowflakes who think like this.
Your ass ain’t fucking special because you don’t wear makeup.
You’re not fucking better than the woman with large breasts who wears tank tops.
You’re a piece of shit because you are putting sexist stereotypes onto other women in some anti-feminine bullshit.If you don’t like it, why’d you comment on it? I think it’s awesome and you’re probably one of the girls up there that wears makeup and shortshorts and tiny tanktops. And most kids today wear makeup because they think they aren’t pretty and need it. So deal with it. And get over yourself.
lemme tell you something: I wear tons of fucking make up. I wear short dresses. I walk around with a face that looks about as fake as it can get outside of a fucking barbie doll. and I like it that way. and, despite what you seem to think, no, it’s not because i think i’m ugly. i just fucking like makeup (and trust, i’ve spent years examining my own motivations and how they’re tied to internalized self-hated, fatphobia and misogyny so don’t EVEN cause you don’t know what you’re talking about).
I also read ravenously; engage in discourse regarding philosphy, art, economics, politics, race, gender, sexuality; make subversive art; and love comics and film and music. I’M A FUCKING PERSON IS WHAT I’M SAYING.
like how fucking deep is this goddamn image when the spine of the book JUST SAYS THE WORD ‘BOOK’.
this kind of bullshit narrative, other than furthering a misogynistic dichotomy that pits women against each other, is also a complete fucking fallacy. A huge majority of average women DON’T DO THIS. you aren’t the lone plain jane in an army of cake-faced, bottle blonde barbies—if you look around, you’ll see that most women just throw on jeans and tops and very little makeup.
I get that this kind of shit is an attempt to fight back against media-made images of what womanhood is supposed to be. I get it. (thought isn’t it interesting that the “weirdo” in the picture is still thin and conventionally attractive??)
but attacking other women who you perceive as being stupid or carbon copies because of their fucking appearance doesn’t fight back against shit. it actually does EXACTLY what the patriarchy wants us to do—engenders more hatred and competition between women.
but you know, whatever, continue to think you’re so goddamn special. i’ll be over here reading AND wearing hot pink lipstick and having a hell of a time doing it.
I love you.
After succumbing to a fever of some sort in 1705, Irish woman Margorie McCall was hastily buried to prevent the spread of whatever had done her in. Margorie was buried with a valuable ring, which her husband had been unable to remove due to swelling. This made her an even better target for body snatchers, who could cash in on both the corpse and the ring.
The evening after Margorie was buried, before the soil had even settled, the grave-robbers showed up and started digging. Unable to pry the ring off the finger, they decided to cut the finger off. As soon as blood was drawn, Margorie awoke from her coma, sat straight up and screamed.
The fate of the grave-robbers remains unknown. One story says the men dropped dead on the spot, while another claims they fled and never returned to their chosen profession.
Margorie climbed out of the hole and made her way back to her home.
Her husband John, a doctor, was at home with the children when he heard a knock at the door. He told the children, “If your mother were still alive, I’d swear that was her knock.”
When he opened the door to find his wife standing there, dressed in her burial clothes, blood dripping from her finger but very much alive, he dropped dead to the floor. He was buried in the plot Margorie had vacated.
Margorie went on to re-marry and have several children. When she did finally die, she was returned to Shankill Cemetery in Lurgan, Ireland, where her gravestone still stands. It bears the inscription “Lived Once, Buried Twice.”
what did i just read