Hello. Bonjour. 你好. I'm Erin, my blog is a lot of really random stuff. Some art, too much humor, a sprinkling of social justicy things, and a heavy hand of fandom. Uh, clarinet, CTY, books, poetry, nerdiness, and the like

 

whippedcloudsofcream:

funnyordie:

via Cop v. Black Guy

What’s really sad here, is that the only unrealistic thing about this, is that the Stormtrooper hit his mark.

Here’s some fantastic news for your Friday: On Thursday, the California Senate unanimously approved a new bill that defines sexual consent as a firm “yes” rather than a lack of “no.”

micdotcom:

This is a big win for anti-rape activists, many of whom have been touting the necessity of an “affirmative consent” standard for years. California Gov. Jerry Brown (D) has the next month to sign the bill into law. If he does, schools across the state would be required to define consent before engaging in sexual activity as an “affirmative, conscious, and voluntary agreement” or risk losing state financial aid funding.

I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.

kilodalton:

OK guys. This moment does not have enough love. In fact, it has some unfortunate anti-love that I aim to resolve here.

Yes, this episode heavily reference Girl in the Fireplace. And yes, that episode is pretty much the most anti-shippy thing to happen in canon for Doctor/Rose.

BUT THIS MOMENT IS GREAT AND WE DOCTOR/ROSE SHIPPERS SHOULD LOVE IT TO PIECES LET ME EXPLAIN!!!!

Twelve can’t remember Clara’s name at first. Nor Vastra nor Jenny nor Strax. He leaves Clara in danger and he won’t even give her the screwdriver. He does questionable things—he’s darker, I get that.

But even so, and even though he’s trying to figure things out with the bad guy, and does not have all his memories intact (‘Handles’? Really, Doctor??) he CANNOT leave the bunch of roses on the floor.

The bunch of yellow roses—yellow which signifies remembrance. There are centuries-old ballads (‘Round Her Neck She Wears a Yeller Ribbon’) and old movies (‘She Wore a Yellow Ribbon’) and folk songs (‘Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree’) all about yellow being the color of remembrance—specifically in all these pop-culture cases, remembrance of a lost love.

And as he’s struggling to remember why droids harvesting parts rings a bell with him, does he look at the droid? No. Does he have flashbacks to women making double entendres with cleavage spilling out? No. (And the eventual reference to MdP is blah blah bland). But what does he do? He twirls the roses and holds them just a little bit closer. This is so reminiscent of the Journal of Impossible Things, where even as a human Ten can’t remember the name of the TARDIS, or the sonic screwdriver—but he keeps drawing roses in his journal and hers is the only face he can canonically put a name to.

Moffat may be many, many things, and do many, many things that I do not particularly like, but this… this is pretty awesome guys. This isn’t anti-shippy at all. This is shippy and sweet and subtle in the extreme.

And I love it and I really think you should too <3

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