Aang: You know what the worst part about being born over a hundred years ago is? I miss all the friends I used to hang out with. Before the war started, I used to always visit my friend Kuzan. The two of us, we’d get in and out of so much trouble together. He was one of the best friends I ever had…and he was from the Fire Nation, just like you. If we knew each other back then, do you think we could have been friends too?
Zuko: Why aren’t you saying anything? You once said you thought we could be friends. You know I have good in me.
Aang: There’s no way we can trust you after everything you’ve done.
Zuko: I can’t believe a year ago my purpose in life was hunting you down. And now-
Aang: And now we’re friends.
Zuko: Yeah. We are friends.
Aang: I can’t believe a year ago I was still frozen in a block of ice. The world’s so different now.
Zuko: And it’s gonna be even more different. We’ll rebuild it together.
So this is the most awesome cover of this song I’ve ever heard. Seriously, this girl is awesome.
Guns And Horses - Ellie Goulding.
Movie Posters Remake → Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1
TRIGGER WARNING: Domestic violence, non-consent, abuse.
…is that he’s a domestic violence committing, female co-star intimidating asshole. You can read the details of what he did to his female partner at the link. Regarding his treatment of female costars: Kiera Knightly didn’t want him spanking her during one of their scenes in a film & said so while tied up; in reply he said “Keira, you’re tied to a bed. You’re not really in a position to say that.” So when a woman is obviously scared and uncomfortable, his response is to scare her further, really make her feel her powerlessness to control what happens to her body. So that happened. And then some of his fans talked shit about her for not fully appreciating how wonderful it would be to get nonconsensually struck by him.
Basically, I don’t understand the attraction at all. I don’t understand. I want to push him out an airlock every time I have to see his hateful face. I want him and every other man who abuses women off my fucking planet. Kinda now.
But, yanno, I also want to shout “he freaking beat his wife!” whenever I see Sean Penn, so I guess I’m just a ~sensitive bitch~.
I find it interesting that I see their faces on my dash semi-regularly (mostly Fassbender), but apparently Chris Brown’s attractiveness isn’t sufficient to make his domestic violence inconsequential.
wow, i did not know this! :(
… why is *every single human being* such an asshole
I have never read this story before.
Thank you for sharing it, OP, now I know not to waste my money and blog-space on Fassbender.
Thank you for letting us know, OP. I had no idea.
Mind-Melter of the Day
It turns out that if you divide 1 by 998,001 you get all three-digit numbers from 000 to 999 in order.
Except for 998.
(via Futility Closet)
From r/ITookAPicture: I left my shutter open for 30 seconds in the wilderness at 10.30pm, under a full moon.
There are other links in the comments that are breathtakingly beautiful.
One of the last masters of western animation, and an absolute legend who worked on so many projects at Disney (since 1974), leaving a unique mark on so many films, announced today that he was resigning from the studio.
March 23, 2012
Dear Colleagues and Friends of the Walt Disney Animation Studio,
After long and thoughtful consideration, I have decided to leave Disney Animation.
I am convinced that animation really is the ultimate art form of our time with endless new territories to explore. I can’t resist it’s siren call to step out and discover them.
Disney has been my artistic home since September 9, 1974. I owe so much to those great animators who mentored me—Eric Larson, Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston—as well as to the many other wonderful people at Disney whom I have been fortunate to work with in the past nearly 38 years.
Over these four decades I have seen so many changes, but the one thing that remains the same is that we all do this because we love it.
I am humbled and deeply honored to have worked side by side so many artists, producers and directors during my career here at Disney, and I am tremendously proud of the films which together we have created.I will deeply miss working with you.
With my most sincere and heartfelt good wishes for your and Disney’s continued artistic growth and success,
To be honest, I thought Keane was going to stay at Disney until retirement but it’s understandable after all these years that Keane would like to pursue some other way of doing animation than inside the big Disney structure, but it IS, the end of an era.
Godspeed, Glen, I can’t wait to see what will come next.
To the first man, who I met by the Eiffel Tower my second week in Paris, when I didn’t know better. Who took me out four times, who waved little red flags that I tried to ignore. Like asking me outright if I was a virgin on the first date, like calling me five different pet names when I’d asked him not to throughout the second, like saying he’d heard that feminists were not real women during the third, like disappearing for a week and a half after the fourth. Who, as it turns out, was not the bullet, but the careening fourteen-wheeler that I narrowly managed to dodge. Who admitted that he hit the young woman that his mother was trying to force him to marry. Who didn’t want to marry her because he believes in romantic love. Who doesn’t see the contradiction in those two sentences.
To the guy in my medieval literature class, who lent me one of Camus’ plays and showed me around the library. Who wants to use his French education not to escape to the West, but to go back to his third-world home country to teach at its eight-year-old university. Who I admired until he asked me what my American boyfriend had thought about me coming to Paris, until he demanded to know why I didn’t have one (a boyfriend, that is), until he asked if it was required that I marry an American. Who reached out and touched my earrings, without asking, the next time he saw me. Who won’t take a hint.
To the PhD student who tried to take me up to his apartment after a five minute conversation, when I had just wanted to get lunch, who said there’s a first time for everything. Who told me that we were university students, living in a 21st century democracy, and that relations between men and women were different now, so what was I so scared of? Who recoiled in shock when I told him that I had friends who’d been raped, and by other university students, at that. Who does not have to think about rape on a daily basis. Who insisted on paying for my lunch, because “it was a matter of honor.” Who then physically prevented me from handing my money to the cashier, when I was trying to make it clear that this was not a date. Who didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t want a boyfriend, five times. Whose number I blocked the moment I stepped on the metro. Who has called me three times since. Who told me he wants to go into Senegalese politics. Who, I can only hope, will listen to the women of his country better than he listened to me.
To the delivery guy on the red motorcycle idling outside of the apartments on Avenue de Porte de Vanves, the ones I walk past every day, who said bonsoir and who, because I said it in return to be polite, followed me to the metro as I walked, head twisted down, pretending that I didn’t understand the language I’ve studied for eight years.
To the two men Thursday night in le Marais, swaggering drunk toward me, ignoring the male friend standing by my side, who leered at my chest and slurred, “Bonsoir, comme tu es mignonne,” as I shoved past them, trying to sound angry, not afraid. Who left me feeling fidgety and panicked, so when I took the night bus in the wrong direction and found myself alone with two other strange men at a bus stop at 2:30 A.M., I let the cab driver fleece me out of 25 euro just to take a taxi home.
To the group of teenage boys loitering on the corner by my apartment, who decided to sound a siren at my approach because I was wearing a knee-length dress and a bulky sweater. Who made me regret forgoing tights because I had wanted to feel the spring air on my calves for once. Who will never have to wear an itchy pair of pantyhose in their entire lives. To whom I said nothing, because I still have to walk past that corner twice a day for the next three-and-a-half months, because there were five of them and one of me.
To the three men standing on the corner of the periphery five minutes later when I was crossing the street. To the one who motioned for his friends to turn and look at me, quick, and then left his wolf-whistle ringing in my ears, shame like sunburn covering my face. Who didn’t care that it was broad daylight. Who made me wish that I could swear a blue streak back in French, without my accent betraying that I am American, which is another word for “easy” here.
To the two men at sunset on the bridge by Saint Michel, in the middle of tourist central, who made skeeting noises at me, like a pair of sputtering mosquitoes, to get my attention. Who laughed when I flipped them off, and who kept hissing at me anyway. Who forced me to keep checking over my shoulder, all the way to the metro, to make sure that I wasn’t being followed.
But also to the French friend who blamed my problems with French men on my university in the northern suburbs, a Parisian synonym for emeutes, gang violence, and immigration. Who insisted that if he brought me to his upper-crust private (white) university—where the French elite reproduces itself into perpetuity—I would meet nicer French guys. Who forced me to defend the men who’d harassed me against his barely-veiled, racist critique.
And also to the American friend at home who nearly rolled his eyes as he half-listened to my stories, who said, “Oh god, it’s hard being so attractive, isn’t it?” as if I was being vain. Who laughs and does not understand why I always duck out of the frame of photographs, who knows nothing of what my body means to me.
And that’s just two months in Paris.
To all the Italian men who made me wish I had dyed my hair black before studying in Florence, who kept me from going out dancing because I got sick of feeling them creeping up behind me, sneaking their hands around my waist (and lower) when I’d already said NO three times.
To the six-foot-something Georgetown student who prided himself on protecting the girls from being groped on the dance floor. Who chose to write about the rape of the Sabine woman for that week’s assignment. Who described the way her breast slipped free of her tunic when she fell, as if he was writing a porno, not a rape scene, who had the woman fall in love with her Roman rapist the next morning, after he spun her a tale of the coming glory of his country. Who said “in a fit of passion, she thrust herself upon his member” and was not joking. Who ended the story with the titular character saying to her children that she had been raped, but only at first.
To the seventh-grade boy who told my younger sister that he could rape her, if he wanted to.
To the gang of twenty-five year-olds in the Jeep who hollered at her as they drove past, leering at her thirteen-year-old body dressed in sweat pants and a tank top. Who made my sister, fearless on the soccer field and in the classroom and in the karate studio, run home crying. Who were the reason she became afraid to walk the dog by herself in our “safe, suburban” neighborhood.
To my father, who said, “What white male privilege?” Who was not being ironic.
Dean isn’t laughing at his own raunchy joke here. He’s not just amused. Entertained. Faking the hell out of it. He’s not even snickering to himself at Sam’s reaction to the latest prank.
Think about it.
You have been trained like a soldier your entire life with two principles in mind: Kill the evil sons of bitches. Protect Sammy. Protect Sammy. Protect Sammy. Protect Sammy protect Sammy protect Sammy you are nothing if you fail at this it is your job don’t fucking screw this up Dean like you screw everything else up this is important PROTECT YOUR BROTHER ABOVE ALL ELSE.
Sammy dies. On your watch. Right in front of you. Multiple times.
Now, you’re so jaded that seeing him die isn’t the world-shattering thing it once was. Because you know he’ll come back, whether he wants to or not. But you still tell those fucking hunters to kill you, because whatever is happening to Sammy on the other side, he will not do it alone.
And you wake up here.
In this place, there is no pain. No hunters shooting at you point-blank. No monsters. No demons. No angels. No people to save. No people to lose. When the sense of peace hits you, you’re confused for a few moments; you have never felt this before. Not even once.
You see him.
Young. Before his innocence was ruined, before he died, drank demon blood, killed things, knew things, watched you fail over and over again. Before he was just as broken as you think you’ve always been.
He smiles at you. Holds up fireworks.
You watch his face, lit up with rainbow colors that flicker over the features you now only know from memories - there aren’t any photos. Too dangerous, too trackable. Sammy is laughing, like he never laughs anymore.
He hugs you. You feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him breathing. He laughs again, wild abandon, runs off to jump and dance and holler under those fireworks, and you feel your face do something odd and you realize you are smiling, because fuck if this isn’t what you want, the only thing you have ever fucking wanted, just Sammy safe and happy and rid of that eternal weight on his shoulders.
Then the gunshots sound.
And you remember.
And he’s gone.
She didn’t mean James Potter.
She meant Severus Snape.
(first quote: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Chapter Two: A Peck of Owls; second quote: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter Thirty-Three: The Prince’s Tale)
Holy crap. I didn’t even realize this. Brava for J.K. Rowling’s perfect continuity.
And all this time I was assuming ‘that awful boy’ was James. I owe him an apology.
OMFG! Brava! Bra-va!
Oh God she meant SNAPE. wow.
NEVER NOTICED THAT.
HOLY CRAP HOLYMOTHERFUCKINGCRAP