the last time korra wore that dress was when she and asami met

i am in so much pain

(Reblogged from korra-x-asami)


This is the story of a music journalist. He was a pretty successful music journalist. He had an ostensibly full-time gig at a pretty mainstream outlet. The pay wasn’t great but it was enough to live on, and he was pretty thrilled he got to write about music for a living. He worked from home, mostly. No real point to an office in this day and age when your outlet’s writers are all over the country. Each day the big recording studios would mail out new and upcoming albums and singles to him. Sometimes he’d get tickets to concerts that he had to review. Sometimes he’d write more what he’d call “culture” stories that weren’t about a particular album or concert but maybe some artist had done something in the public eye or said something on twitter. He really loved pop music in all its guises and the cultures surrounding it so the whole thing was pretty sweet.

Every morning he’d go to his local cafe for breakfast. It was good to have a routine where you left the house when you work from home. One day, there was this women busking with a guitar. She had the most chilling voice he’d ever heard and her fingers moved across the guitar strings like a spider’s legs move across a web (he liked that line, he wrote it in the Notes app on his phone). He had no change on him, but he did stop and listen for a while. When he got home, the new Kanye West album was in his letterbox.

The next day, she was there again. She was playing a different song, but it was no less beautiful. It was also unlike anything he’d ever heard. This day, he’d broken a $10 note at the cafe so he threw in a $2 coin to her guitar case and went on his way. When he got home, he started his review of the Coldplay concert he’d been sent to last Saturday.

She was outside the cafe everyday from then on.The music journalist started leaving home a little bit earlier just so he could stop and listen for a time. Every day he made sure he had $2 to give her. Sometimes they made eye contact and smiled in that way you smile at someone when you recognise them as part of your daily routine.

Three months passed. He’d given her about $180 in total by this stage (not that he was counting). One day, he happened to be walking by as she was replacing a guitar string. He was saddened he wouldn’t hear her unique brand of music today, but threw in his $2 all the same. She thanked him, and said he was too kind. He said it was the least he could do. He paused, then, and told her what a unique voice she had, and asked why she was out here busking. She shrugged and said she’d gone to the big record companies and no one seemed  interested in her. It was too weird. There wasn’t really a market for it. She did have these CDs she’d burnt, but never really bothered to market them. He insisted she sell one to him (she said $3, he insisted on $5). 

He listened to it at home while he wrote about the upcoming Taylor Swift album. The production was rough, and it had clearly been recorded directly into a laptop’s mic, but the strength of her voice and her nimble control of the guitar was still clear. It was unlike anything the big record companies were sending him.

He decided to write a story about her. He wrote about how great her voice and guitar sounds were, how unique and utterly unlike anything he was reviewing was like. He wrote about how excited it made him. He said, explicitly, that anyone in the area should go down and listen to her and buy her CD. He didn’t see any need to mention he’d been throwing $2 her way every day for the past three months. It seemed irrelevant

Over the next few days, comments started appearing on his story. Some people agreed that she was great and they were glad they bought the CD. Others said she was alright but didn’t see what the big deal was.

Nobody ever demanded to know if he had ever given her money.

Nobody claimed this coverage of an unknown artist beyond the record label paradigm was a sure sign of a music journalism conspiracy. 

His editor didn’t have to write a clarification that stated the outlet’s writers would no longer give spare change to buskers playing music on the street

The end.

(Reblogged from azurewhelp)




Dear STFU-Moffat and associates,

From now on, I insist you describe Steven Moffat as “Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat.” Just to make sure you’re being fair.

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat is a queerbaiting hack

Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat is a sexist dingus.

Don’t you think Emmy-award winning writer Steven Moffat looks tired?

(Reblogged from azurewhelp)


so has this been done yet

(Reblogged from arcadiasilver)


Let us be vividly clear about this.

What the New York Times did to Michael Brown today was not merely slander. It wasn’t a case of a lack of journalistic integrity.

Highlighting that a black teenager was “no angel” on the day he is being laid to rest after being hunted and killed by racist vigilante forces is not an unfortunate coincidence.

The New York Times deliberately played into an archaic American tradition in devaluing both the merit of black life and the tragedy of black death.

They chose the day of his funeral, as his family, friends and activists everywhere have to grapple with a human being lost to pontificate about how he was “no angel”. Michael Brown was many things to many people; a son, a brother, a cousin, a nephew and another black causality of murderous police institutions and today, amidst all the racist violence he, his loved ones and community have had to endure, he was going to finally receive the respect and moment of honor he deserved and NYT decided today, of all days, to tune in their audience onto wholly irrelevant facts about his life - that in turn, transform the very injustice surrounding his death and the following police violence that plagued Ferguson into a national panel about whether or not his death is actually worth mourning and their language suggested that to them, it indeed is not.

This was hardly an accident or mistake. This is the perpetual hostility that is met against black life in America. The consensus is that black people deserve no respect and for black life to be legitimized and honored, we must meet a list of prerequisites. Subsequently, if black people aren’t valued, neither are our deaths understood as tragic or murders seen as criminal action.

This has been the atmosphere of America since its inception and much has not improved.

(Reblogged from arcadiasilver)



Matrix in all his green glory


(Reblogged from virusq)







Reblogging Hipster Zeus again.

never forget real life sheogorath

i hope to be this cool someday

witchyroryy HIPSTER. ZEUS.

nothing not to love about this

I reverse searched to find his name, and Google literally suggested “Hipster Zeus”

(Source: jasminescent)

(Reblogged from arcadiasilver)



"We’re trying to appeal to the adult female audience so we skimmed some of the popular titles with that demographic and are pleased to bring you this new fantasy adventure game where your team mates are giant talking pigeons, handsome lawyers in nice suits, and giant horned bull men that you can date."

You can date either the pigeon the pretty lawyer or the bull man and the two you don’t date will date each other.

(Reblogged from coelasquid)


She was having nightmares..

This is kind of beautiful. I love how Jinora is holding Korra’s hand.

(Reblogged from futagosa)














You need to see it.


(Source: brozoi)

(Reblogged from coelasquid)