I just noticed that in the Pirate Fairy they bring Captain Zarina her drink of choice: “tea, earl grey, hot.” :)

BOOYAH!
This is my favorite part of work. I have to adapt an Edgar Allen Poe story for worship on Sunday. As part of our ingathering of waters ceremony. To celebrate our community and inspire us to be better people, of use to the world. I’m psyched!
But I’ve also done this before, and I know by Friday I may be more like

And by Saturday night I’ll be

But right now, in this moment: BRING IT. IMMA WRITE A FUCKING MASTERPIECE OF LITURGICAL STORY.

BOOYAH!

This is my favorite part of work. I have to adapt an Edgar Allen Poe story for worship on Sunday. As part of our ingathering of waters ceremony. To celebrate our community and inspire us to be better people, of use to the world. I’m psyched!

But I’ve also done this before, and I know by Friday I may be more like

And by Saturday night I’ll be

But right now, in this moment: BRING IT. IMMA WRITE A FUCKING MASTERPIECE OF LITURGICAL STORY.

maybe it’s just me but…

I always think discernment is the hard part. But then I get to the point of implementation and realize, nope. Deciding to do the thing is significantly easier than actually doing the thing. Nice try, self.

There are accepted revolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are refused revolutions, which are called riots.

– Les Miserables Volume 5, Book 1, Chapter 20 (via rrosejonathanselavy)

(via harriet-fried-chicken-up-north)

writeworld:

Writer’s Block
A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

I was born on a twin engine bus. I was a sliver of a peanut, actually, smaller than a pup. Early, too. Mama was headed to work that day. They turned the bus around for her—us, I guess—to take us back home. And not just to the stop, either. That pilot put us down right in the port of our very own building. Nanna came up in the lev to meet us and brought a neighbor friend to help carry Mama back down to our apartment. 
I told that story in my interview. I thought it would make them remember me, you know? I just said I was born on a bus, I mean, not the stuff about the pilot and his route. I think about that guy sometimes. Or maybe it was a woman. I don’t know. He must have been fired, though. He probably made six, seven hundred people late that day, the day I was born. Someone must have called for his head, right? Some must have contacted the office and demanded it. And restitution maybe. Every story has an underside. 
It just seems unlikely, right, that seven hundred people—with their own worries, their own dusty shoes and bills and overdues and precarious jobs—that that many people could all root for the same thing, right?
Anyway, sometimes I think about that when I’m flying my own bus now. I don’t know what I’d do in reality, but it’s easy enough if I set the scene the way I want it. I mean, what if there were cheers? Excited voices so loud I could hear them in the pit. What if all those people forgot about their time clocks for a bit and gave up a holler for a mama and her peanut? What if a gman with his sleeves rolled up and a tossed-aside briefcase leaned over and pushed the call button to narrate for me. “It’s a girl!” he’s shout. And I’d get on the IC and tell everyone, “Let’s get this baby home!” and a new cheer would erupt. I’d be a hero, you know? I’d be remembered. Yeah, I think about that a lot. 

writeworld:

Writer’s Block

A picture says a thousand words. Write them.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

I was born on a twin engine bus. I was a sliver of a peanut, actually, smaller than a pup. Early, too. Mama was headed to work that day. They turned the bus around for her—us, I guess—to take us back home. And not just to the stop, either. That pilot put us down right in the port of our very own building. Nanna came up in the lev to meet us and brought a neighbor friend to help carry Mama back down to our apartment. 

I told that story in my interview. I thought it would make them remember me, you know? I just said I was born on a bus, I mean, not the stuff about the pilot and his route. I think about that guy sometimes. Or maybe it was a woman. I don’t know. He must have been fired, though. He probably made six, seven hundred people late that day, the day I was born. Someone must have called for his head, right? Some must have contacted the office and demanded it. And restitution maybe. Every story has an underside. 

It just seems unlikely, right, that seven hundred people—with their own worries, their own dusty shoes and bills and overdues and precarious jobs—that that many people could all root for the same thing, right?

Anyway, sometimes I think about that when I’m flying my own bus now. I don’t know what I’d do in reality, but it’s easy enough if I set the scene the way I want it. I mean, what if there were cheers? Excited voices so loud I could hear them in the pit. What if all those people forgot about their time clocks for a bit and gave up a holler for a mama and her peanut? What if a gman with his sleeves rolled up and a tossed-aside briefcase leaned over and pushed the call button to narrate for me. “It’s a girl!” he’s shout. And I’d get on the IC and tell everyone, “Let’s get this baby home!” and a new cheer would erupt. I’d be a hero, you know? I’d be remembered. Yeah, I think about that a lot. 

You just might not understand it yet. But it’s cool. Family is super cool. Going home to one girl every night is super cool. Just going home and getting on the floor and playing with your child is super cool. Not wearing a red leather jacket, and just looking like a dad and shit, is like super cool. Having someone that I can call Mom again. That shit is super cool.

Kanye West (via nickelcobalt)

i just started bawling

kanye

albi 

(via st8ofdisappearance)

(via ipomoeaj)

littlebeans:

Help! The pirates and vampires have invaded! Don’t they look SCARY?!?

I just don’t know what I would do if I could only have one favorite photo. 

littlebeans:

Help! The pirates and vampires have invaded! Don’t they look SCARY?!?

I just don’t know what I would do if I could only have one favorite photo. 

(via kidpres)

sexartandpolitics:

"I don’t believe in the metric system"

That’s not how it works.

Verrrrrrry interesting!