Hold both shift keys down, and try to type “THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVER THE LAZY DOG.”
THKBNFJS THLAY DG.holy shit
THE QUICK BROWN FOX JUMPS OVR HE LAZY DOG
HE QUIK BROWN FO JUPS OER HE LA DO
HE QUIK BROW FO JUPS ER HE LA DOG
THEQUICKROWFOXJUMPSOVERTHELZYDOG.
… wow 0.o
Date a girl who writes.
Date a girl who may never wear completely clean clothes, because of coffee stains and ink spills. She’ll have many problems with her closet space, and her laptop is never boring because there are so many words, so many worlds that she’s cluttered amidst the space. Tabs open filled with obscure and popular music. Interesting factoids about Catherine the Great, and the immortality of jellyfish. Laugh it off when she tells you that she forgot to clean her room, that her clothes are lost among the binders so it’ll take her longer to get ready, that her shoes hidden under the mountain of broken Bic pens and the refurbished laptop that she’s saved for ever since she was twelve.
Kiss her under the lamppost, when it’s raining. Tell her your definition of love.
Find a girl who writes. You’ll know that she has a sense of humor, a sense of empathy and kindness, and that she will dream up worlds, universes for you. She’s the one with the faintest of shadows underneath her eyelids, the one who smells of coffee and Coca-cola and jasmine green tea. You see that girl hunched over a notebook. That’s the writer. With her fingers occasionally smudged with charcoal, with ink that will travel onto your hands when you interlock your fingers with her’s. She will never stop, churning out adventures, of traitors and heroes. Darkness and light. Fear and love. That’s the writer. She can never resist filling a blank page with words, whatever the color of the page is.
She’s the girl reading while waiting for her coffee and tea. She’s the quiet girl with her music turned up loud (or impossibly quiet), separating the two of you by an ocean of crescendos and decrescendos as she’s thinking of the perfect words. If you take a peek at her cup, the tea or coffee’s already cold. She’s already forgotten it.
Use a pick-up line with her if she doesn’t look to busy.
If she raises her head, offer to buy her another cup of coffee. Or of tea. She’ll repay you with stories. If she closes her laptop, give her your critique of Tolstoy, and your best theories of Hannibal and the Crossing. Tell her your characters, your dreams, and ask if she gotten through her first novel.
It is hard to date a girl who writes. But be patient with her. Give her books for her birthday, pretty notebooks for Christmas and for anniversaries, moleskins and bookmarks and many, many books. Give her the gift of words, for writers are talkative people, and they are verbose in their thanks. Let her know that you’re behind her every step of the way, for the lines between fiction and reality are fluid.
She’ll give you a chance.
Don’t lie to her. She’ll understand the syntax behind your words. She’ll be disappointed by your lies, but a girl who writes will understand. She’ll understand that sometimes even the greatest heroes fail, and that happy endings take time, both in fiction and reality. She’s realistic. A girl who writes isn’t impatient; she will understand your flaws. She will cherish them, because a girl who writes will understand plot. She’ll understand that endings happen for better or for worst.
A girl who writes will not expect perfection from you. Her narratives are rich, her characters are multifaceted because of interesting flaws. She’ll understand that a good book does not have perfect characters; villains and tragic flaws are the salt of books. She’ll understand trouble, because it spices up her story. No author wants an invincible hero; the girl who writes will understand that you are only human.
Be her compatriot, be her darling, her love, her dream, her world.
If you find a girl who writes, keep her close. If you find her at two AM, typing furiously, the neon gaze of the light illuminating her furrowed forehead, place a blanket gently on her so that she does not catch a chill. Make her a pot of tea, and sit with her. You may lose her to her world for a few moments, but she will come back to you, brimming with treasure. You will believe in her every single time, the two of you illuminated only by the computer screen, but invincible in the darkness.
She is your Shahrazad. When you are afraid of the dark, she will guide you, her words turning into lanterns, turning into lights and stars and candles that will guide you through your darkest times. She’ll be the one to save you.
She’ll whisk you away on a hot air balloon, and you will be smitten with her. She’s mischievous, frisky, yet she’s quiet and when she has to kill off a lovely character, when she cries, hold her and tell her that it will be alright.
You will propose to her. Maybe on a boat in the ocean, maybe in a little cottage in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe in New York City. Maybe Chicago. Baltimore. Maybe outside her publisher’s office. Because she’s radiant, wherever she goes. Maybe even outside of a cinema where the two of you kiss in the rain. She’ll say that it is overused and clichéd, but the glint in her eyes will tell you that she appreciates it all the same.
You will smile hard as she talks a mile a second, and your heart will skip a beat when she holds your hand and she will write stories of your lives together. She’ll hold you close and whisper secrets into your ears. She’s lovely, remember that. She’s self made and she’s brilliant. Her names for the children might be terrible, but you’ll be okay with that. A girl who writes will tell your children fantastical stories.
Because that is the best part about a girl who writes. She has imagination and she has courage, and it will be enough. She’ll save you in the oceans of her dreams, and she’ll be your catharsis and your 11:11. She’ll be your firebird and she’ll be your knight, and she’ll become your world, in the curve of her smile, in the hazel of her eye the half-dimple on her face, the words that are pouring out of her, a torrent, a wave, a crescendo - so many sensations that you will be left breathless by a girl who writes.
Maybe she’s not the best at grammar, but that is okay.
Date a girl who writes because you deserve it. She’s witty, she’s empathetic, enigmatic at times and she’s lovely. She’s got the most colorful life. She may be living in NYC or she may be living in a small cottage. Date a girl who writes because a girl who writes reads.
A girl who writes will understand reality. She’ll be infuriating at times, and maybe sometimes you will hate her. Sometimes she will hate you too. But a girl who writes understands human nature, and she will understand that you are weak. She will not leave on the Midnight Train the first moment that things go sour. She will understand that real life isn’t like a story, because while she works in stories, she lives in reality.
Date a girl who writes.
Because there is nothing better then a girl who writes.
Just because I remembered it, and it made me laugh XD I haven’t thought about this story in probably years, but I adore it, so I’m writing it down and posting it on the internet so it lives forever. Kay? Kay.
So, I’m at the grocery store, standing at the self checkout. While I’m checking out my stuff, I’m looking around at the other people in the near area. Call it a psych student thing. I like to people watch. Well, standing in line for another self checkout… there’s this boy.
This guy is relatively cute. Not like stop-what-you’re-doing-and-stare cute, but oh-hey-that-guy-is-pretty-cute cute.
In his arms, out for the world to see, no attempt to hide them behind a magazine or something… this boy is holding a box of tampons and a bottle of Midol.
I look around. Nope. No girlfriend present. He is there by himself.
I see him looking around at the magazines and stuff to pass the time. His eyes fall on the candy display. He only takes a second to think, then reaches out and picks up a Hershey bar.
Sir, I don’t know your name, I never met you, and I’ll never see you again. But you are my favorite person in the world.
[video]
Is this what happens when Sherlockians leak into other fandoms?
Is this what happens when Sherlockians leak into other fandoms?Is this what happens when Sherlockians leak into other fandoms?
We really need season 3 as soon as possible.
We should start renting ourselves out to other fandoms.
Got a tough problem you can’t solve? Hire a Sherlockian!
Nagging doubt about your favorite series? Hire a Sherlockian!
No question too insane; no detail too tiny to miss.WE ARE THE FANDOM THAT WAITED. And then got bored.
(Source: heyitsbeccalynn, via hashtag-wholock)
I want to hug these recycled tennis balls they are so cute! Designed byDominik Langhammer of Loony Design they are just cute as buttons holding things like towels and keys.
(via gallifreyanheart)
[video]
[video]
It’s Mr. Gold’s house outside of Vancouver!
I think it’s for sale, actually.IT’S FOR SALE?! DO WANT.
AS;JDALKSJDAKLSJDKASHDKJASH
WAR COUNCIL, LOOK! PINK HOUSE! FOR SALE.
THIS IS MY DREAM HOME, NOT EVEN KIDDING. LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT, MOVE OUT OF MY WAY BITCHES.
WE HAVE TO BUY IT NOW AND PUT ALL OF OUR NAMES ON THE LEASE.
WHY DOESN’T THE FANDOM JUST BUy THE HOUSE TOGETHER? IT’S A BIG FANDOM WE COUD TOTALLY DO IT. JUST BUY THE HOUSE AND THEN ALL BUNK THERE WHENEVER WE’RE IN VANCOUVER. IT’D BE AWESOME.
i am seriously willing to chip in for this
Shot in my jaw. Awesome.
that means i was shot/stabbed in the ass. lovely.
…my ass?
…The inside of my thigh?
Holy shit, I have one on my knee. I TOOK AN ARROW TO THE KNEE YOU GUYS.
A minor injury to the pointer finger…. my other life was a pussy
my butt used to be blue does that count as a birth mark
I’m guessing I just stuck both my legs into the crossfire at some point, because that’s where the majority of my birthmarks are. Apparently I also died courtesy of a dainty nick to the webbing of my left middle finger. I’m thinking infection.
I took a hypodermic needle to both boobs in a yin-yang pattern?
Someone fucking stabbed me with a tiny knife twice under my right eye! I don’t know what the hell I did, but I guess the evidence is right there.
Hell yeah, I was Achilles!!