superwholockthecomic:

rebloggable by request

(via twobrokenmirrors)

moriartyisaprincess:

barackobama:

feathersmcstrange:

polished-trophy-pretty-whore:

stuckwithharrypottertilltheend:

sneadly:

WHY ARE BOOKS NOT WATERPROOF 

I WANT TO READ IN THE SHOWER 

AND TO PROTECT MY BOOKS FROM MY TEARS

IT’S 2012 WHY ARE BOOKS NOT WATERPROOF.

IT’S 2013 WHY ARE BOOKS NOT WATERPROOF OBAMA FIX THIS.

I’m working on it

(via tothefaultedstarsandback)

tastefullyoffensive:

[madeleineishere]

(Source: helpusgreatwarrior, via cassjaytuck)

et-in-arkadia:

3 reasons mon frére 

1) as imagicality pointed out, a donkey is also a jackass. we all love our bb grantaire, he feels and thinks very deeply, but canonically, grantaire can be a bit of a braying dick. he is an epic troll and we adore him for that. 

2) in george orwell’s “animal farm” the donkey is the only cynical animal and the oldest and the smartest and he doesn’t believe revolution is possible and he doesn’t take any action until the end of the book when the pigs betray his best friend um

3) i have an odd but abiding headcanon that eeyore is grantaire and grantaire is eeyore

do you see the resemblance

steelplatedhearts:

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot. Grantaire has started to encourage him, of all things. Must have a discussion with him later.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot. Tried to impress upon Grantaire the importance of taking these things seriously and not encouraging Marius in his romantic delusions. I do not think he really absorbed any of my wisdom, as he spent the entire meeting trying to play with my hair.

I worry about the fate of France, diary. I really do.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot. I am v. close to losing my shit over this nonsense, diary. It’s like I’m the only one who cares about the future freedom and dignity of Patria.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot. If there is one more fucking musical number in the middle of my meetings I am going to punch Marius in the face.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot.

Although, as it turns out, Marius makes v. amusing squealing noises when punched.”

——

“Dear Diary:

France still not free. Marius still being an idiot. Eponine yelled at me for making Marius cry.

WHY IS EVERYONE SO CONCERNED WITH MARIUS’S PROBLEMS fuck everything I am going to bed.”

(via reverse-mermaid)

reverse-mermaid:

sannam:

Favorite scene of the entire book? Pretty much.

V&V, stand around in cemeteries at night talking to each other more often please.

Vimes, your face.

I think this is the almost perfect Vimes. But man alive this book is brilliant, to say little of this comic :D

waffleguppies:

rubitrightintomyeyes:

oodlesodoodles:

i guess ill just throw this up here. part of my headcannon that includes not being close to any establishments when they get out. being out in the sun means they sweat and wheatley’s already covered in that fermented bio-whatever goo. (he doesnt understand the irony behind the fact that he is the smelliest human chell has ever encountered).

his first bath isnt at home, its at some kind stranger’s. you might remember from here.

uh

Hahaha, story leaves out that Wheatley is disgusted at how much the world stinks, doesn’t realize it is him.

For a single, fit, able-bodied human, the walk back to Eaden might have taken twelve hours. For the entire population of a small town- a sore-footed, bewildered column of humanity, ranging from six months to ninety-six years in age, with accompanying complaints, headaches, twisted ankles, sunburn, arthritis, tantrums, heat exhaustion, and fierce navigational arguments- it was taking much, much longer.

This was the second night. At dusk, they found a landmark, the main road to Depot- a dusty track, with barely room for two trucks or farm vehicles to pass with a lot of scraping and creative language. Most of the town settled down to sleep in the long grass by the road, wrapped in the thin blankets they’d gathered from the Relaxation Units, thankful for the warm breezy summer night.

Chell sat up, watching the clear sky, watching for headlights along the long straight road. Somewhere around three o’clock in the morning, she became aware of a rising swamp-monster smell attached to some awkward dragging noises, which fumbled through the grassy near-darkness of the ditch behind her and became Wheatley.

“Not the friendliest bunch, are they?”

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