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October 29 2017

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October 28 2017

*screams incoherently about the wave PDE being an aspect of elementary particles*

I’ve recently had cause to read some vintage science and oh man it’s just. Such a mood??

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my turtle goes trick-r-treating


Well a turtle just won the entire internet’s Halloween costume contest, everyone else can go home. :D

[Image: a turtle with a four elephants on its back, which are in turn supporting a disc with a world on it. It’s a'tuin!!!]

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Of course

 it ends where it began

on a desert planet

with twin suns

October 27 2017

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Sooo I found this, gave me a hearty chuckle, 

*startled wheeze*

October 26 2017

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concept: anakin sitting in the council room bouncing baby luke on his knees as he adamantly denies having children or attachments 

And denies the Council permission to induct Luke and Leia Skywalker (no relation) into the crèche.

Leia runs up to him yelling, “Daddy! Look at this picture I drew of you and me and Mommy!”

He praises her artwork and tells her they will put it on the fridge at home, then turns to Mace and says, “I have no idea who this child is.”

all the comments on this post are the best out of any I’ve ever gotten but Anakin looking Mace dead in the eye and saying “I had no idea who this child is” might honestly be the best addition of them all

October 25 2017

6) Tolkien’s hero was average, and needed help, and failed.

This is the place where most fantasy authors, who love to simultaneously call themselves Tolkien’s heirs and blame him for a lot of what’s wrong with modern fantasy, err the worst. It’s hard to look at Frodo and see him as someone extra-special. The hints in the books that a higher power did choose him are so quiet as to be unnoticeable. And he wouldn’t have made it as far as he did without his companions. And he doesn’t keep from falling into temptation.

A lot of modern fantasy heroes are completely opposite from this. They start out extraordinary, and they stay that way. Other characters are there to train them, or be shallow antagonists and love interests and worshippers, not actually help them. And they don’t fail. (Damn it, I want to see more corrupted fantasy heroes.) It’s not fair to blame Tolkien for the disease that fantasy writers have inflicted on themselves. […]

Fantasy could use more ordinary people who are afraid and don’t know what the hell they’re doing, but volunteer for the Quest anyway.

It’s misinterpretation of Tolkien that’s the problem, not Tolkien himself.

“Tolkien Cliches,” Limyaael

(via mithtransdir)

The whole point of The Lord Of The Rings… like, the WHOLE POINT… is that it is ultimately the hobbits who save the world. The small, vulnerable, ordinary people who aren’t great warriors or heroes.

Specifically, Sam. Sam saves the world. All of it. The ultimate success of the great quest is 100% due to a fat little gardener who likes to cook and never wanted to go on an adventure but who did it because he wasn’t going to let his beloved Frodo go off alone. Frodo is the only one truly able to handle the ring long enough to get it into Mordor - and it nearly kills him and permanently emotionally damages him - but Sam is the one who takes care of Frodo that whole time. Who makes him eat. Who finds him water. Who watches over him while he sleeps.

Sam is the one who fights off Shelob.

Sam is the one who takes the Ring when he thinks Frodo is dead.

Sam is the one who strolls into Orc Central and saves Frodo by sheer determination and killing any orc who crosses him. (SAM THE GARDENER GOES AND KILLS AN ACTUAL ORC TO GET FRODO SOME CLOTHES LET’S JUST THINK ABOUT THAT). And then Sam just takes off the Ring and gives it back which is supposed to be freaking impossible and he barely even hesitates.

Sam literally carries Frodo on the last leg of the journey. On his back. He’s half-starved, dying slowly of dehydration, but he carries Frodo up the goddamn mountain and Gollum may get credit for accidentally destroying the ring but Sam was the one who got them all there.

Sam saved the world.

And let’s not forget Pippin and Merry, who get damselled out of the story (the orcs have carried them off! We must make a Heroic Run To Save Them!) and then rescue themselves, recruit the Terrifying Ancient Powers through being genuinely nice and sincere, and overthrow Saruman before the ‘real’ heroes even get there.

Let’s not forget Pippin single-handedly saving what’s left of Gondor - and Faramir - by understanding that there is a time for obeying orders and a time for realizing that the boss is bugfuck nuts and we need to get help right now.

Let’s not forget Merry sticking his sword into the terrifying, profoundly evil horror that has chased him all over his world because his friend is fighting it and he’s gonna help, dammit and that’s how the most powerful Ringwraith goes down to a suicidally depressed woman and a scared little hobbit.

Everything the others do, the kings and princes and great heroes and all? They buy time.  They distract the bad guys. They keep the armies occupied. That is what kings and great leaders are for - they do the big picture stuff.

But it is ultimately the hobbits who bring down every villain. Every one. And I believe that that is 100% on purpose. Tolkien was a soldier in WWI. His son fought in WWII. (And a lot of The Lord Of The Rings was written in letters to him while he did it.)

And hey, look, The Lord Of The Rings is about ordinary people - farmers, scholars, and so on - who get pulled into a war not of their making but who have to fight not only because their own home is in danger but so is everyone’s. And they’re small and scared but they do the best they can for as long as they can and that is what actually saves the world. Not great heroes and pre-destined kings. Ordinary people, doing extraordinary things because they want the world to be safe for ordinary people, the ones they know and the ones they don’t.

Ordinary people matter. They can save the world without being great heroes or kings or whatever. And that is really important and I get so upset when people miss that because Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf and all the others are great characters and all but they are ultimately a hobbit delivery system.

It is ordinary people doing their best who really change the world, and continue doing so after the war is over because they have to go home and rebuild and they do.

If nothing else, I have to reblog this for the phrase “hobbit delivery system.” So accurate it hurts.

(via elenilote)

What I love too is how even the foretold king and the assorted great heroes themselves all come to recognize that their main (and by the end, only) role is to distract Sauron. To the point that by the end they’re all gathered up before the black gates of Mordor in order to keep his attention focused on them, with only the hope - not the certainty - that they can buy Frodo whatever remaining time he needs, if he’s even still alive.

One thing the movies left out but has always been such a key part of the books for me was how when the hobbits returned home, they found that home had been changed too. The war touched everywhere. Even with all they did in far-off lands to protect the Shire, the Shire had still been damaged, both property and lives destroyed, and it wasn’t an easy or simplistically happy homecoming. They had to fight yet another battle (granted a much smaller one) to save their neighbours, and then spent years in rebuilding.

(via msbarrows)


October 24 2017




My Grandpa, you have to know, already had depression when I was born. Until the day he died, I had never really gotten to know the man he once had been, before the disease had taken hold.

People told me that my Grandpa had been witty, and full of life. His eyes had sparkled when he had teased others gently, when he had laughed when he had surprised everyone with a good joke.

I couldn’t remember any of that. The Grandpa I knew was neither really witty, nor full of life. And I had never seen his eyes sparkle, or heard him laugh aloud.

That doesn’t mean that I didn’t love my Grandpa. I did, very much so. He was very patient with us children – his precious grandchildren, he called us. He was a good listener, and probably the kindest, most gentle person I’ve ever met.

But Grandpa was always a bit sad, and a bit tired. We could never visit him for long, because he had to go back to bed after a short time.

“Your Grandpa is easily tired,” my parents explained to me. “That has nothing to do with you.”

Well, I didn’t think it had. I always had fun when we visited Grandpa and Grandma, and even though Grandpa’s smile never really reached his eyes and he fell asleep easily, I know he enjoyed it, too.

He would get up early, to prepare everything for us. He would smile often, even though it cost him much energy.

And, especially – he would go outside, into his personal little garden, and pluck all the ripe strawberries he could find from the bushes, arrange them on a little plate, and wait patiently for me to run into the living room where he was waiting with the strawberries. He would smile – sometimes, it even reached his eyes – and say, “There is my girl.”

It was our ritual, and neither of us would have changed anything about it.

Until one day, I was four at that time, Grandpa was nowhere to be seen when I ran into the living room. No Grandpa, no strawberries on the table.

It was raining outside, the sky dark and crying, and Grandma followed after me where I stood in the middle of the room, utterly confused.

“Where is Grandpa?”

“He went back to bed, sweetie,” Grandma looked ready to fall asleep herself – so, so tired. “You will just have to wait for him. I’m sure he will come down when he hears that you’re here. How about you draw something for him in the meantime?”

I nodded, suddenly feeling sad all of sudden. So Grandpa had one of his “cloudy days” as I called them, where he was feeling even more tired and sad than usually.

I sat myself into a corner, paper and colorful pens strewn out next to me, and started to draw. A big, smiling sun, and red dots for strawberries, and me and Grandpa should be on the drawing, I decided.

While I was drawing, my Grandma talked to my parents, in hushed whispers.

Adults tend to forget that children understand more than they think.

“It’s the new medicaments… they make him even more tired.”

“Can’t he change…?”

“Switching from one to the other was already bad enough. I almost couldn’t get him out of the bed in the mornings… he didn’t want to get up at all…I’m so glad you came today. He always feels better when he knows that you come to visit…”

It wasn’t the first time that I overheard the adults talk about Grandpa. I didn’t understand everything they said – strange words like “therapy” and “depression” were unknown to me then. The use of “medicaments” had me led to believe that Grandpa was sick, like me when I had to flu or something, and I always hoped he would get better soon.

When I had asked Grandpa about it, he had just shook his head and ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie. Your Grandpa is going to be okay.”  

I was utterly engrossed in my drawing, until suddenly, everyone was running around, worried voices sounding throughout the house.

“Where is he?! He can’t just leave the house without telling me, something could happen to him…”

“Mother, calm down, I’m sure he didn’t go that far…!”

“Where would he go in this weather?”

I was looking around, confused because everyone was so loud and worried.

My Mum kneeled down to me, shrugging her jacket on while she told me, “Stay right here, okay? We’re just going out for a walk for a moment. We will be right back.”

“Ok,” I said, nodding, and went back to my drawing.

In a matter of minutes, I was left alone in the big old house, while my parents and my grandmother went outside to search for my grandfather (though I didn’t know that in that moment, firmly believing that they had gone for a walk).

I was content with drawing until a few minutes later, someone cleared his throat right next to me, saying warmly: “Aaah. There is my little girl.”

I looked up from my drawing, beaming as I saw my Grandpa standing in the door way to the garden. “Grandpa!”

My Grandpa smiled back at me. He was soaked wet, having come into the house from the rain, without a jacket or boots or anything. He didn’t even seem to mind the cold (because cold he must have been), he only smiled tiredly down at me, lifting the plate he was holding in front of him like a present.

The plate was laden with freshly picked strawberries.

My Grandpa explained, “Couldn’t let my granddaughter go back home without her favorite fruits, hm?”

My Grandpa sat me at the big dining table while he went to dry himself off a bit. As he came back, he motioned for me start eating, while he himself just sat there and watched me.

I was stuffing my cheeks with strawberries, until I saw that my Grandpa’s eyes were falling closed again and again.

He was paler than usually, and looked even sadder.

I stopped eating, and watched him, too. He tried to smile, but didn’t really manage.


“Yes, sweetie?”

“Why are you so sad?”

He shifted a bit, blinking slowly. I had never really asked for the source of his sadness.

(Today, I wonder if anybody ever did ask him so directly.)

“Sometimes, we don’t need a reason to be sad. We just are,” this time, he smiled, tightly.

For me, that was very odd. When I was sad, I had a reason to be. I was sad because Grandpa was sad, for example.



“Can’t you be happy again?” 

My Grandpa was quiet for a few moments, looking silently at the plate between us.

Finally, he reached over and picked one strawberry up. It was the smallest of them all, and more than half of its surface was pale-green instead of deep red like the others.

“I made a mistake with this one,” Grandpa said, holding the little berry oh-so gently between his fingertips. “It was too early to take it, and yet I did. Now it will never have the chance to get that happy, red color.”

I nodded, very seriously, thinking myself very mature for understanding his disappointment.

(I didn’t, not really. I would understand later, when I was older.)

Grandpa laid the berry back down and looked up. Looked at me.

And for a moment, it seemed like the sky had cleared. The clouds over his face cleared as he smiled at me. Really smiled, so that it reached his eyes and lit them up.

I laughed, grinned, because it had been so long since I had seen him smile.

He reached over, stroking my cheek with his knuckles, and chuckled. “You have that red color, too. Are you a strawberry, sweetie?”

I laughed some more, thinking that very funny.

Grandpa’s smile slowly disappeared, even though his eyes stayed clear as he said, very quietly, “We are a bit like these strawberries, you know, sweetie? When we are happy, we’re full of color and life. When we are sad, we are pale and…”

He trailed off, frowning slightly, not ending that sentence. And I didn’t dare to ask.

At this point, nobody had yet explained to me what the opposite of “life” is.

“It’s exactly the same,” he continued after a moment. “We are sad and pale sometimes. But with time, and care, and warmth, we get colorful and happy again. Do you understand that?”

I nodded, hesitantly. I didn’t really understand, but I didn’t want to tell him that and disappoint him.

“Sweetie,” grandpa said, almost urgently, “That means, no matter how sad you are, you can get happy again if you just keep living.”

He stopped again, plucking the small, pale strawberry from the plate and looking at it as he added, “If you don’t keep living, then… You will never get a chance to be happy again.”

We looked at each other, really looked. I was a bit confused, and overwhelmed. I understood that he was trying to tell me something important, but wasn’t sure if I really understood what he was saying.

Perhaps he could see that.

Just when we heard the front door open and close again, my parents and my grandmother returning, my Grandpa shook his head, smiling. He reached over to hold my face between his hands, so gently, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “And, anyway… I’m always as happy as I can be when you visit me, little strawberry-child.”

We couldn’t talk more about strawberries and being sad and becoming happy again after that. My parents and my grandmother were so relieved to see my grandfather (still a bit wet, still cold and pale) safe at home, they took turns in gently reprimanding him and asking him if he was alright.

He nodded along, looking even more tired now that he had all that attention. He was sent back to bed (“You’re almost falling over!”) and smiled back at me as he waved at me.

I waved back, left with my parents who patted my head and hugged me and told me that we probably better went home now.

Only when we were already on our way back home did I realize that I was still holding my drawing, pressed tightly to my chest.

In all that serious talk about strawberries and being sad, I had forgotten to give the drawing to my Grandpa.

We never talked about strawberries again. Our ritual had never changed – Grandpa still awaited me with strawberries every time, and I would be the happiest girl on earth when he greeted me with a smile.

That didn’t change, even as his condition got worse and worse.

Five years later, I was nine, my Grandpa died. Just fell asleep one evening and didn’t wake up again.

My Grandma was crushed at that time. We all were. It took a long time for us to stop missing him, to stop being sad when we visited his grave or just went to visit Grandma.

I hadn’t seen the dead bed of my Grandpa. Nobody would let a nine year old girl see that. But I heard my mother say, in the evening when she came back and cried, “He was so… so pale. Pale and…”

She trailed off, much like Grandpa had trailed off in his sentence all those years ago.

By now, I knew what the opposite of “life” was, and understood what she wanted to say.

Grandpa would never get the chance to get happy and colorful again.

Three more years later, I fell into depression.

No wonder, many people said. I had always been a very quiet, empathic and sensitive child, without many friends. I had been bullied for years, and my parents were in the middle of a divorce at that time.

No wonder, they said, completely normal to fall into depression because of all of this.

That didn’t really make it easier for me.

Suddenly, I understood my Grandpa’s “cloudy days” so much better than I did as a little, clueless child.

I felt sad without reason. I felt sad with a reason. I basically felt sad almost all the time, and when I didn’t, I just felt numb and tired.

I just kind of dragged on. Day for day, I struggled to get out of bed, went to school, did the best I could do in that state. I was still bullied, my parents were still arguing, my father was still blaming me, and I cried a damn river, day after day. But I went on, and on, and on.

I was sent to psychologists, pretty much sent myself, because I knew that I needed help to get out of it. I switched psychologists a few times, but it was basically always the same – questions, taking notes, more questions.

That went on and on for years.

One day, my psychologist asked me, yet again, “Did you ever think about what dying would be like?”

Normally, I would just answer “Yes” and let it be. I was tired of the question, to be honest. I had answered it so many times, over such a long time, that I was wondering if she was awaiting the same answer again and again and just asked because it had become a habit.

But this time, I said, “It would be easier than living, wouldn’t it?”

That had piqued her interest, I could tell. She was taking notes furiously now as she continued, “Are you thinking about trying? To kill yourself, I mean.”

“No. Never.”

Now that surprised her. For the first time in a long while, she looked up from her notes, looked at me. “But you just said that dying would be easier.”

“That I did.”

“But you never think about really wanting to die?”


“Why? Don’t get me wrong, that is very good, that you don’t want to do it, but… most people in your situation would…”

I watched as she searched for words, and managed a tired smile.

And I thought of strawberries as I answered.

“Because I’m sad right now. And if I would die right now, being sad and pale, then I would never get the chance to become happy and colorful again.”

After all this years, I still don’t know why my Grandpa decided to tell me this little thing. This comparison between a strawberry and me.

He could have told it anyone, his wife, his children, all his other grandchildren.

But he didn’t.

He told me.

He couldn’t have known that almost a decade later, I would be in a very similar situation to the one he was in – depressed, sad and numb.

I don’t know why he told me. But I’m so, so glad he did.

I never forgot.

I’m almost twenty-one now. My depression never really left me. It got better – so much better – but I know it will never completely leave me. That’s okay. I learned to deal with the remaining of my cloudy days, saying hi to them like to old friends and to send them away again. My life has become a lot better, and much has changed (for the better).

But I never forgot what my Grandpa taught me, when I was a mere child of four years.

What my Grandpa taught me was: No matter how sad and broken you feel, how hopeless – don’t give up hope. Dying may seem like the most comfortable, the easiest way out of this, because it seems as if everything has been lost and there is nothing to live for anymore.

But that’s not true.

Me, and you, and everyone else – we all have a future to live for. We all have chances – not one, not two, but as many as we need – to become happy and lively again. In the future.

The moment you die because you can’t stand it anymore, that’s the moment you lose all the chances to become happy again.

Dying is not your way out. Dying is how you lose. Dying is how the depression wins.

I don’t know about you, but I would rather be a strawberry-child. Being a strawberry-child, that means that you, even when you are sad, you never forget that you can become happy again in the future. That you just have to keep on living, and that, if you do, it will be worth it.

Let’s be strawberry-children together, okay? Until one day, we can become happy and colorful again.

(I promise, you will.)

Well worth the read.

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november thistle

October 23 2017








My math binders are always red every year I feel like math is just a red subject

Math is a blue subject and I’m prepared to fight you over this

G U Y S reblog this with whether you were a math person and whether math is red or blue to you!

Excuse you Maths is orange how dare you

math is FUCKING RED 

Math is red

Nonono, Math is blue, German is Red, English is green. The other subjects fought over the remaining colours like some sort of Hunger Games each year

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omfg that is just too adorable

This kitteh having a little halloween adventure is one of my favourite posts of all time :)

Every fall like clockwork this photo set pops up and we all must reblog it

You know it’s getting close to Halloween when you see it appear :D

This will always be one of my favorite comics ever. It gives me warm fuzzies~

my heart….

Oh little baby kitty ❤️

tbt the one dream I had where I was like –nope! I would much rather deal with lead and aggression and decreased intellect* than organomercury hell–

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Vackra nordsvenka use stallion Window fotad in March 2016 Beautiful North Swedish stallion

Photographer Therese Hübner

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found this agressively moist mug at goodwill last week

…von Lipwig

October 22 2017

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On a surface much hotter than their boiling point, droplets can surf on a layer of their own vapor due to the Leidenfrost effect. Recent research has shown that textured surfaces like ratchets can create corrals, traps, and mazes for such droplets. Here, researchers manipulate the propulsion of Leidenfrost drops using non-parallel grooves instead. When placed between two non-parallel plates, the droplet is squeezed by side forces perpendicular to the walls, with the resultant force in the direction where the gap widens. In most states, friction forms an opposition to this squeeze, but for Leidenfrost droplets that frictional force is negligible. Instead, the squeezing from the plates launches droplets toward the wider end of the groove, allowing researchers to design repellers (top) and traps (bottom) for the fast-moving drops. (Image credits: C. Luo et al., source)

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autumn’s metamorphoses: 10am ~ 11am🍂


Guys please reply to this with what your url means or references I’m really curious

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