1/669 +

Rocket aka Sammy, lady, 23, Roman Catholic, somewhere awesome.

Art, Homestuck, Magic: The Gathering, other dinosaurs, dragons, Supernatural, Doctor Who, Halo, Metal Gear Solid, RPing, Sithspawn, and a bazillion other things.

My Best Buddies
My Terrer, Oh Cap'n My Cap'n, King Butt the Fabulous, My Mushy Twin, Mum, Snarkshark Brother, Needs More Dakka

music player code


so my school had this thing called “senior skip day,” except that senior skip day didn’t exist and every year the administration sent out emails in the spring that were like DON’T FUCKIN SKIP CLASS OR YOU WILL RECEIVE RESTRICTION (restriction was like, my boarding school’s equivalent of detention where instead of staying after school you had to go to bed early and help stuff envelopes advertising the summer program until your hands were BLOODIED AND CRIPPLED BY CARPAL TUNNEL) and every year the seniors were like YOLO THEY CAN’T PUNISH ALL OF US!!!!!

  • spoiler alert: yes they can? THEY ALWAYS CAN.
  • 200 years of american high school and teenagers still think that there is a cap limit on kids in detention and that you can leave after 15 minutes if the teacher doesn’t show up.

anyway, my senior year, we all got together and nattered at each other until some brave soldier (i feel like it was my friend paula but WHO KNOWS) was like “OK SENIOR SKIP DAY IS THIS THURSDAY!!!! NOBODY GO TO CLASS OR UR A SCAB.”

  • she didn’t say scab because she’s not from the 1920s and we aren’t newsies, though this story would be way more interesting if we were
  • what she said was “YOLO THEY CAN’T PUNISH ALL OF US!!!!!”
  • except not yolo because it was 2009 and drake hadn’t been invented yet except as a dear sweet boy in a wheelchair.

we also used this email system to communicate with one another that has very deeply informed the way i understand email and which probably makes it very frustrating to be my friend and receive emails that have subject lines like “URGENT” and then just 42 links to the same florida georgia line youtube video.

  • I’M NOT ASHAMED, but in that way where like i kind of AM ashamed so i’m really aggressively NOT ashamed? 

so the day of reckoning rolls around and my alarm goes off at 8 (class started at 8:05 but i liked to PLAY WITH FIRE when it came to being late; my mom actually asked the school to stop emailing her when i was a sophomore because i was late so often that their rote “Mrs. Ofgeography we are emailing you to say—” was CLOGGING UP HER INBOX and she was like “i GET IT MY CHILD IS THE MOST BORING MISCREANT OF ALL TIME.”) and i looked at my roommate elle and she looked at me and went, “you going?”

"hell no," i said. "YOLO. they can’t punish all of us."

elle, who was far prettier and far cooler than i was with the notable exception of her obsession with tswift’s “love story” and her tendency to look at the endangered species list and cry sometimes during study hall, quickly bizounced across the street to this shopping center thing where all the cool kids smoked in secret where huge trucks dropped off clothes for the Dress Barn. i think there were also tennis courts nearby. more importantly there was this chinese food delivery place and a lil restaurant that made HELLA BAGELS.

  • HELLA.

off goes elle! meanwhile i’m like, “yessssss i’m gonna use senior skip day to watch 14 hours of tv shows and eat frozen peanut butter bars that i stole from the dining hall! I’M GONNA LIVE LIKE I’M 23 ALONE IN CHICAGO ON A WEEKEND WHEN MY ONLY PLAN IS TAKEOUT AND CUDDLING WITH THE FAUX-SNOW-LEOPARD BLANKET I WILL ONE DAY SURELY OWN.” 

of course, during this time the administration was continuing to send out emails that reminded us with increasing urgency that senior skip day was NOT A THING and that we were ALL GETTING RESTRICTION if we didn’t get our STUPID ASSES TO CLASS, GODDAMNIT, WE ARE NOT RUNNING A CIRCUS HERE. 

but i was like! yolo, motherfuckers!!! i already got into college, YOU CAN’T TOUCH ME.

at some point during the day elle and our friend ginna came back to the room with takeout from the chinese delivery place and we sat on our floor eating it and probably watching veronica mars or looking at the endangered species list and crying.

all of a sudden, elle said, “guys shut up, guys shut up, GUYS SHUT UP,” and ginna and i were like, “WHAT we have a LOT to SAY about FRIED FUCKING DUMPLINGS, ELLE," and elle said, "did you hear that?"

"hear what?"


'that' was the sound of one of our dorm moms, mrs. f, knocking on doors and saying things like, “IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR BUTTS TO CLASS IN 5 MINUTES YOU'RE ON CATEGORY 4 RESTRICTION FOREVER.” elle quickly scampered up our raised beds to hide in the corner, where a tiny human like elle could actually hide from view; i leapt immediately into what we called a closet but was basically a cubby with a flap that was DEFINITELY not meant for a 5'8” individual with knobby as hell knees.

our door, which was never locked because we both hated the effort of typing in the lock code, opened. mrs. f said, “mollyhall?”

i held my breath. 

  • i should add here that i seemed to be operating on like a scooby-doo level of logic where basically i thought that she was somehow NOT ALLOWED to investigate?
  • like, if she can’t see me, there is NO POSSIBLE WAY that she could prove i’m in here, right?
  • she’ll just poke her head in and be like oH GOSH NO KIDS HERE and leave!!

you can see the flaw in my logic.

mrs. f sighed. “mollyhall, i know you’re in here, i literally heard your voice ten seconds ago.”

  • there’s no WAY she guesses i’m in the closet!!!

"mollyhall, i know you’re in the closet."



there was a creak. mrs. f stopped. it wasn’t actually a “creak,” so much as this like, prolonged groan? like it’s the sound an elephant would make if it sat on a really large accordion.

i poked my head out of the closet. mrs. f looked at me. elle sat up.

i said, “where’s ginna?”


"um," said elle, "she’s in the—"


ginna yes.

i really wish i could describe the sound the ceiling made when it collapsed. it sounded a lot like the way losing your breath feels. i sort of remember ginna falling in like, really slow motion, like i could see the expression on her face. i didn’t really think about how i would describe this in words. ginna’s face said:

  • oh no.
  • what have i done?
  • this was a mistake. 
  • i regret a series of decisions that i have made.
  • is there a way out of this?
  • are those oreos under mollyhall’s pillow?
  • why are there oreos under mollyhall’s pillow?
  • mollyhall, you HAVE a food cupboard, what good is a food cupboard if you don’t—
  • oh, crap.

she belly flopped onto the floor. i mean, the girl bounced. and then she just laid there. mrs. f looked at her. elle looked at her. i looked at her, still mostly in the closet. we were all going to get category 4 restriction forever.

ginna said, “hi, mrs. f. i feel like i should explain.”


Stop Calling Me Pastries 1/3

27 skin tones, five descriptions each, no cannibalism required.

 #F5E4DC: Bubble Bath, French Manicure, Martian Clouds, Plaster Pink, Snowbush Rose

#E8D6CA: Antique Pearl, Beige Llama, Rose Marble, Shoreland, Sugar Glider

#EDBFA5: Coral Flower, Fresh Sawdust, Starfish, Sun-Warmed Tile, Westwind Dust

#DBC0B9: Ashes of Roses, Canyon Dusk, Muddy Rose, New Wool, Venice Skyline

#DEAB98: Prairie Dust, Rosestone, Sandpaper, Sunbaked Clay, Warm Sands

#CB9684: Antique Rose, Harness Leather, Rocky Cliff, Rustic Pottery, Space Dust

#C78E70: Cedar Chest, Flame Flicker, Hitching Post, Light Tiger Eye, Potters Clay

#BA7A5F: Copper Coast, Cork Tile, Timeworn Terracotta, Tudor Clay, Weathered Saddle

#785249: Antique Mahogany, Coach Lamp Copper, Cypress Brown, Dark Ruby, Sable Bronze

credits: photos from humanae, hex codes from imagecolorpicker, paint color names from encycolorpedia


Awakening the Bear

Perhaps you’ve seen Surrak Dragonclaw, the khan of the Temur clan. Perhaps you’ve even seen him punch a bear. But the Temur aren’t all face-smashing and bear-punching. They’re also a deeply spiritual people, and Surrak represents that duality of reverent respect for the wilds and utter pragmatism in dealing with them.

But the position of khan is not hereditary, and Surrak wasn’t born into it. He was once just another young Temur warrior trying to make a name for himself. Until one wilderness encounter altered his destiny forever…






everyone check your music apparently the new U2 album downloaded onto everyone’s iPhone hahhah I’m dying







Hippocamp: a hybrid sea creature found in Greek, Phoenician and Etruscan mythology, often called a “sea horse,” the beast has the front half of a horse and the coiling, scary back half of a fish. Poseidon, the Greek god of the seas, is often pictured riding across the waves in a chariot drawn by Hippocamps.

from Desert Places by Robert Frost


This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

Thank you, Miss M


Back when I was in 6th grade (around 11 years old for our international readers), we did a short-story writing project in class. I was lukewarm about this whole “fiction” thing. I was a scholar and how dare my teacher make me write tales when I could be reading the encyclopedia about Bubonic Plague again. But, since we’re all friends here- and friends don’t lie to each other- the real reason I was miserable was because I wasn’t good at it immediately. I could hear the story in my head, but it would get tangled in my elbow and only a sputter would make it to the page. It was demoralizing to say the least. I concluded this fiction stuff was going to take more than 5 minutes of my time, and since I wasn’t going to be a Nobel Laureate, it was sign I shouldn’t be doing it all.

One day my teacher, Miss M, pulled me aside and asked what the problem was. She had collected our journals and while my classmates had filled theirs with fairy princesses and Power Ranger fanfic, mine was filled with doodles of swashbuckling stick-figures or hieroglyphics. I told her my story that I would’ve written, and explained that it was my elbow’s fault because it tangled up everything. She pointed out that I had told her an amazing story (not counting the one involving my elbow) then gave me a piece of advice that has carried me since:

Talk it out. Just pretend you’re telling me the story.

It was one of those light bulb moments I saw in my cartoons. I carried my construction paper “writer’s journal” home that night. I sat at the dining room table and I pretended to tell Miss M the story as I wrote. I could tell my dog was judging me. Night after night, I talked things out until I had filled my little notebook. The dog remained judgmental.

Eighteen years later, I still talk things out. Sometimes out loud, but mostly in my head. Sometimes, when I’m really struggling, I still imagine Miss M sitting there listening to my story. The beauty of this advice is that it’s so basic, yet accomplishes two things all writers need.

  • First, it makes you imagine a reader. Whether you’re writing an essay in school or a short-story for a competition, you have an audience.
  • Second, it gets you out of your head. Imagination is an wonderful thing. However, it’s as dangerous as it is wonderful because we’re tempted to keep our ideas in the warm, echo-chamber of our minds. Talking them out, or writing them down, is the first step to developing your ideas in earnest.

So, the next time you run into a rough spot in your writing, take a moment and heed Miss M’s advice and talk it out.



"Fata Morgana" by Jacques Maes

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Had the most wonderful day. Secret forest lakes and all. And I’ve realized I’ve fallen in love.

Keaton Henson – Nearly Curtains

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