What Kind Of Idiot Would Spend Almost $400 On Figures

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

HAPPY STAR WARS DAY and May the Force be with you.

Nobody:

White bearded dudes creating a logo:

i'm literally begging you to help us defend our freedom of speech. we have six days.

please reblog this post, especially if you live outside of the philippines. please help us.

i didn't make the carrd, but it's one of the most useful links right now. #JunkTerrorBillNow needs the most urgency, but there are other issues present too.

i'm begging you all to reblog.

Any tips for panel layout for pacing? I feel like yours really lends itself to the stories u tell.

thank u. its random comic tips which may or may not answer your question time, cookie edition

did that help

ICE made a decision to order all international students whose universities are online to leave the country or risk facing immigration consequences and getting deported which essentially means that students will have to decide between leaving the US or risk their health. many countries don’t even have their borders open and some people may not even have places to go so please sign this petition which requests that international students get the option to finish their degrees and remain in the USA

“i. “Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.” My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying. “Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.” My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning. But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe. On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek. “Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.” ii. Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo. “Tas…?” “Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.” A pause. “Do you go by anything else?” “No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.” “Tazbee. All right. Alex?” She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language. “Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it. iii. I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school. “Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision. “My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone. iv. I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph. I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation. “How do I say your name?” she asks. “Tazbee,” I say. “Can I just call you Tess?” I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me. “No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.” I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year. v. My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard. When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up. vi. My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.” My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden. vii. On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name. viii. At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath. “How do I pronounce your name?” he asks. I say, “Just call me Tess.” “Is that how it’s pronounced?” I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.” “That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?” When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown. ix. “Thank you for my name, mama.” x. When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due”

—

Tasbeeh Herwees, "The Names They Gave Me“ (via cat-phuong)

I am weeping.

(via strangeasanjles)

Hey runners (and walkers)! Thought this might be helpful :)

Hades and Nico’s father-son relationship is my religion

Ok but like we don’t talk enough about Hades and Nico’s relationship (except for that user who spills hc about young Bianca and Nico and Hades god bless your soul thank you).

i’m not so sure about Dyonysus and with the exception of Apollo who was forced to join the demigods for the quests, but i’m strongly convinced that the Underworld ones had the closest father-son connection. 

technically speaking.

- He acknowledges him (that’s a big point provided Hades is one of the B3)

- He gave Nico instructions (ab the prophecy) and warnings (Lycaon and the wolves) and blessings (”I want (hope?) you to be happy”) GUYS GUYSSSSSSS I LITERALLY CRY EVERYTIME I RECALL THIS

- actually the statement above is enough to prove the bonding alr.

- Hades told Nico about Camp Jupiter and trusted him not to share the information until the time is right. That shows respect and pride.

- He forbids Nico to enter Tartarus again. which implies that 1) Hades cared about Nico and wishes to keep him from harm and 2) Nico actually told/ seeked consultation from his father regarding the matter (which may or may not include talking about his mental strugglings, too. and lemme tell you, with all their bitter history and daddy issue, that’s a whole freaking GIANT step)

- They see each other regurlaly (’on a daily basis’ in a demigod’s standards, really). and that, lemme tell you, is the ONLY pair who manage that??? i don’t recall Percy visit his father often? and let’s just skip Zeus. 

- which is a fucking HUGE point btw.

- Nico refers to Persephone as stepmother. which heavily implies he actually sees Hades as his father, ofc.

- Nico has the title Ambassador of Pluto. He is literally working for his father. I’m not sure about the whole errands thing bc i might have read too many fanfics but again, does Percy have a title regarding his father? No. (Does Jason have a title regarding his father? No bc worst father of the decade Jupiter does not deserves him) The whole ‘son/ daughter of bla bla’ thing is automatically given to you provided your lineage, but no Nico has a freaking title and can speak on behalf of/ represent the Lord of the Underworld himself.

- Hades gives Nico a zombie chaffeur as a birthday present, yall.

- and he did it bc he was aware that mortal parents drive their children around but he couldn’t. a freaking GOD attempted to be a little mortal-like solely to warm up with his son. we all know how big a god’s ego can be, yet Hades is literally there trying to be a normal father for Nico. if this is not love i don’t know what is.

- Also it implies that he would if he could. WHICH means he actually makes effort. WHICH MEANS HE TRULY LOVES AND TREASURES HIS SON and i refuse to belive the otherwise, okay??!!!!

- and please don’t forget Hades did intend to hide the children along with their mother in the underworld to protect them. He is protective no you can’t change my mind. And in his defense the whole neglect and mistreat thing after that is bc he was mourning Maria.

I love all the “if Sokka was a bender” takes and all BUT if Sokka was a bender he woulda found the loophole of utilizing his bending so he could use all the other elements as well in weird “well technically” ways and it would just piss Aang off I can feel it

teruki, the walking pantene commercial