Obviously this is just Jared’s headcanon, but I think there’s something really poignant in the lesson that he thought Sam would want to pass on (Jared CE panel 22 Nov 20)
In some black communities there’s still a stigma that kinky or coarse hair is “bad”, which couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s no such thing as good or bad when describing someone’s natural hair texture or type. To those struggling to love and accept their natural hair because of societal pressures, remember this - straight, curly, kinky or wavy, it doesn’t make a difference. Embrace your hair the way it is, no matter what society tells you. All hair is good hair. It’s your Crown.
ultimately i think the reason i don’t take a deeper dive into scp stuff is because nothing will ever live up to scp 5031
it starts with Edgy Murder Monster (Who Is Weird) standard fare and then ten or so diagrams later you are like. profoundly emotionally invested. and then you get to the last sentence which makes you cry irl
researcher 1: this right here is a murderbeast. lock it in the shame cube and never pay attention to it
me: yeah okay. it’s a keter scp what did i expect.
researcher 2, ten years later: i never met researcher 1 but he was a Bitch. anyway i want to know if scp5031 can befriend a chicken.
me, already reaching for the tissues,
I’m actually gonna go ahead and link to 5031 just to try to encourage even one more person to enjoy what’s got to be one of the greatest literary achievements of the past decade.
my only further thoughts that i want to express shall be expressed through these memes
Ok I read the link and I am actually crying now. “one of the greatest literary achievements of the past decade” I’m not arguing
my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them.
“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.
“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.
the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.
my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i knowshe wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.
the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.
my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”
She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”
“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings.
the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.
the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.
the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks over and being sure i spoke to only him and no one more. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?
the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.
the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.
it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spend so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.
i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.
the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.
the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold
but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.
my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.
like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.
i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.
Date: 2 December 2020 Uploaded to FB: 24 December 2020 Characters (from left): King Bradley, Mrs. Bradley, Selim Bradley (from Fullmetal Alchemist by Hiromu Arakawa)
Description: My gift art for @zevri in Fullmetal Alchemist Secret Santa 2020 event hosted by @fmasecretsanta2020
Really interesting prompt that makes me immediately conjure up an image of the Bradley family having a Christmas dinner under modern day settings. Hope you have a wonderful holidays and awesome 2021 (filled with lots of good food)!
One thing I’m surprised people don’t talk about more often is the Demonic Zodiac (also known as The Black/The Dark Zodiac.) The Demonic Zodiac represents the darker side of the human creature. They represent the darker side often overlooked in traditional astrology. The movie “13 Ghosts” created it’s own Black Zodiac to reflect the personalities described in the Demonic Zodiac.
Aries/The Selfish King: The selfish king rules in order to receive all the victories for themselves They are as angry as they are self-centered. Hates the Ravening Dog. They are arrogant, selfish, and hot-tempered.
Taurus/The Fallen Demon: The Fallen Demon lies through their teeth to gain the upper hand. They hate The Poisoned Dart. Main characteristics are malice, remorseful, and braggart.
Gemini/The Viper: The viper spits venom in their words and are skilled at it. They show no remorse when angry. The Viper hates the Hurricane and is emotionless and venomous.
Cancer/The Snake: When all others fight, the Snake crawls beneath their noses and strikes when the moment is right. The Snake is manipulative and drains the life form their victims. The Snake hates the Leviathan and is treacherous and deceitful.
Leo/The War Maiden: Warrior Goddess of Evil, The War Maiden is blood-thirsty and craves the spotlight. They value pride and honor before all else. They hate The Horned Beast. Main characteristics are pride and greed.
Virgo/The Maelstrom: Wrath from the Maelstrom is directed at all. The Maelstrom destroys all out of ignorance and is ruthless to all in their path. The Maelstrom hates the Weapon and their characteristics are aggravation and hypocrisy.
Libra/The Ravening Dog: The Ravening Dog acts on a whim, attacking anything in it’s path without thinking first. Represents the number 666. The Ravening Dog hates the Selfish King. Characteristics are reckless, accusative, and irrational.
Scorpio/The Poisoned Dart: The Poisoned Dart is known to carry grudges for a long time and strike when the moment is right, and it’s sting packs a lethal punch. The Poisoned Dart hates the Fallen Demon and is suspicious, abusive, and sinful.
Sagittarius/The Hurricane: The Hurricane represents blind destruction, withholding emotion until it explodes. It’s reckless destruction is directed toward those it hates, which is mostly all. The Hurricane hates The Viper and is destructive, reckless, and acts first.
Capricorn/The Leviathan: A blood-sucking leech, The Leviathan gains power from others. Their cunning allows them to steal while stealing the strength of the other signs. The Leviathan hates The Snake and is parasitic, powerful, and dangerous.
Aquarius/The Horned Beast: Abusive and controlling, The Horned Beast only shows this side of their personality to gain dominance and complete control over people. Hates The War Maiden and is confusing, manipulative, and abusive.
Pisces/The Weapon: The Weapon is blinded by it’s emotions, especially anger. The Weapon does not show until the easy way out is no longer applicable. The Weapon hates the Maelstrom and is impulsive, narrow-minded, and moody.
It’s important to remember there is a little evil in all of us, and the good parts wouldn’t exist without it. Evil should not be feared, it can be harnessed and turned into something useful. It should never, however, overpower the good. (This is also just for fun.)
As a BIG fan of Bruce and Nat being together, i have huge worries. Firstly i just can’t stand the idea of Brutasha ending in infinity war. Acording to Scarlett their reunion will be devastating and she felt something there that wasn’t that solid anymore.
But the fact that Brutasha is being adressed so much just gives me silly hopes.
In Thor Ragnarok we can see a lot of Brutasha since that’s what the director planned despite of the hate.
In CACW we see Natasha wearing Bruce’s colors.
In the trailer though we see them looking at each other and i see a bit of pain or sadness in their faces. I don’t know if that is the reunion scene since it was rumored that it was gonna be the one with Hemsworth, Ruffalo and Johansson in a bar.
I just hope for the best since i looove these two.
