stars in your multitudes

I heard that there’s a special place where boys and girls can all be queens every single day.

alex horne: [exists] sue perkins:

MERLIN | 5x01 “Arthur’s Bane: Part One”

Carly Rae Jepsen @ Victoria Warehouse, Manchester 7 February 2020

episode one of the dr. who revival was absolutely balls to the walls. some exec was probably like let’s do something normal that kids and adults will love! and mister russell t davies was like get that shit out of my face immediately. we’re doing an episode on a sentient pile of goo, bad cgi lightning, evil garbage cans, and mannequins with guns, or we riot

episode TWO of the dr. who revival was absolutely balls to the walls. some exec was probably like okay NOW let’s do something normal that kids and adults will love! and mister russell t davies was like i thought i told you to get that shit out of my face. we’re doing an episode on a sexy tree lady, an evil flap of skin, toxic by britney spears, handholding, and the inevitable fiery doom of planet earth, or we riot

home

so my english teacher put up new posters in her class and

this is the exact energy that i strive for 

Oh my God I’m not sure of the accuracy of this scale but I made one anyways.

1: Jane Austen. Theoretically Romantic, mostly a clever satirist more interested in the novel as the perfect vehicle for social commentary than in poetry for capturing emotion. Very little chance of swooning and/or dramatic death. A very safe spot on the Romanticism scale.

2: Dorothy Wordsworth: Actually a Romantic, though not excessively so! Enjoy your long walks in the country. Keep those diaries. Your brother can mine them for publishable material until people consider them finally worthy of academic interest a century or two later.

3: Wordsworth. May result in later becoming annoyingly conservative but mostly harmless. Go ahead and wander lonely as a cloud. Gaze upon that ruined abbey.

4: Charlotte Turner Smith. Recover that English sonnet and transform it into a medium that mostly expresses sorrow! Help establish Gothic conventions! Have what Wordsworth called a true feeling for rural England! Die in penury and be forgotten by the middle of the nineteenth century!

5: Blake. ?? Who even knows man. Talk to angels. Create your own goddamn religion. Confuse all of your contemporaries.

6: Mary Shelly. Go ahead and run off with that unhappily married poet who took you on dates to your mother’s grave, but this may result in carrying your husband’s calcified heart around in a fragment of his last manuscript the rest of your life. But also, arguably inventing sci-fi as a genre… so that’s some consolation.

7: John Keats: listen to that nightingale but be forewarned: you will die of TB in Rome and everyone will mock you for dying of bad criticism instead of, you know, infectious disease.

8: Coleridge. May result in never finishing a poem and a severe opium addiction.

9: Percy Shelly. May result in being expelled from Oxford and in premonitions of your own death by drowning.

10: Full Byron. Never go full Byron.

it’s ninety-nine degrees outside, four fuck-thousand percent humidity, and my husband was like, “i’m gonna go for a bike ride.” and i was like “why. no. why. don’t put us on the news like that. local fool collapses on unnecessary journey. don’t do it.” so he says he doesn’t want to “hide in the house” because the sun is shining. bruh. honeybruh. “the sun is shining” does not cover it. its hot outside. its motherfucking hot as fuck outside. our outdoor plants have been crying into their hands all week. whole cars are melting into the sewer. our fucking patio umbrella developed sentience to ask me for lemonade this morning

@robotmango, you need to work for the weather forecast - this was both hilarious and so vivid it made me stand up and get some iced tea.

this is a great idea, thank you. here goes. my audition tape for the weather channel. dearly beloved. we are gathered here today to have a fucking funeral for the outdoors. it had a good run, with all its creeks and clouds and shit. pretty great. now it’s ten-thirty at night but still ninety-two asshole-sweating degrees and humid as fuck. everything is hot and slimy, like being a “borrower” that got trapped inside a bottle of shampoo and then accidentally microwaved. you can see on my doppler radar that nothing is moving around out there because everything is probably dead. the only alive thing is the mosquito currently trying to drill a hole in my leg. no surprise that all the shitbag mosquitos are fine, since the thermostat of hell is always at the devil’s preferred temperature. this forecast has gotten away from me a little, but in conclusion fuck the sun

I think I’ve reblogged this before, but “the thermostat of hell is always at the devil’s preferred temperature” is fucking poetry

Music in Film: Music and Lyrics (2007) dir. Marc Lawrence

LMAO

the best of the mamma mia! here we go again reviews