My voice doesn’t do very well with laptop speakers. You mix a London accent, a general lack of enunciation, and a fairly low register, filter it through really low-quality inbuilt mics, and you get a lot ‘what?’
I’m trying to record some stuff for this presentation on Friday - so I can jam all the info into my head - but there are people.
I don’t care that they’re family. Fuck off. Can people not be within ten miles of me when I’m doing this?
Maybe it says a lot about me that I’m not comfortable speaking out loud like this even around my own family. I don’t know why.
Yes. It’s stupid. No, it doesn’t make sense.
I’m just sick of it.
Since when was the state of your genitals a political statement?
Since when was what you liked to do with your genitals a political statement?
Since when was it written that anything that didn’t come with a loud, mandatory roof-top-proclaimed inclusion of every possible combination of sexuality/gender/physiology automatically excludes them?
Fuck all the drama queens.
“The red god is the one true god. which one is yours?”
ARYA IS METAL AS FUCK
I swear Daenery’s is about fifteen at this point in the book? Shes, err, rather well developed for a fifteen year old.
Then again I’d rather not see a model of a naked fifteen year old girl.
All’s well that ends well?
Ah, the life of a writer. (via the PEN/Faulkner Foundation)
Yeah, this is pretty much word for word what an actual agent told a hall full of people writing short stories during yesterdays lecture.
When you find your servant is your master.
|—||Sting, Wrapped Around Your Finger|
this is so accurate
No, this is bullshit. And you’re all missing the point.
You know what deep roots do?
Takes them a while - but how many shiny new roads, buildings, and other miscellaneous constructions have you seen fall down, crack open, or have to be entirely reworked after a few years because an Oak tree with deep roots doesn’t give a fuck about how weak you are?
The tree is fine. Everything else gets left in pieces.
Grow strong, survive, or die off.
And stop fucking whining.
Physical: “I am in danger of being eaten alive by a starving were-badger.”
Emotional: “But the starving were-badger is my true love, Betty McGoohan.”
Philosophical: “If I cannot reconcile this and the story demands I slay my true love, then love cannot succeed in the face of evil and I am forced to accede to a cynical worldview in which monstrousness is ascendant and all my victories are Pyrrhic and were-badgers are neither cuddly nor sexy.”
Harness all three axes for powerful story-combo power-up extra-life ding.
|—||Chuck Wendig (via writingquotes)|
I may or may not have spent the last hour coming up with what amounts to a nuclear fallout blowpipe.