A healthy mix of philosophical awe and ridiculous humor~This blog contains the following (Click each for the link!):
James, 23, Oklahoma, Medical Technologist in Chemistry (ASCP), Part-Time Panda
I love how she almost drops it until she smells it and that flashbulb memory hits.
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real … Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
Notice she says “who” it was and not “what” it was.
im so masochistic its terrible i cried while drawing this omg
But what if
THIS FUCKING POST
I AM FUCKING SOBBING
It hurt. And then I reread it, and realized it was from the dog’s point of view. And now it hurts even more.
No, it’s fine. I didn’t need my heart.
Are we crying about a doodle of dinosaurs?
Welcome to Tumblr
Oh god it hurts why would you ever
The meteor was coming.
Oh, God, it was coming and she didn’t know what to do. Her son, her beautiful little son, pressed close to her side, craning his neck to look up at his Mother.
“Mummy, why is everyone moving? There’s plenty of food here.” He asked in his sweet, innocent voice.
“Because, my sweet, sometimes it is best that we move on. It is our way.” She replied, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.
“Oh,” Her son said, turning his gaze to the fiery rock in the sky that would spell their deaths out for them, “the old Triceratops told me it was cuzza that rock. He said the rock could hurt us real bad.” He continued, not understanding what he meant by those words in his innocence.
“Triceratops is being silly, he just wanted to tease you one more time before he left.” She lied, choking on her tears. Oh, God, he son, her lovely son, was going to die not understanding.
She turned her face to the meteor- it was close now. It wouldn’t be long. Swinging her head around, she dropped her face to her sons and nuzzled him one last time. “Let’s play a game, yes? And then we’ll go join the others.” She suggested.
“Okay! What game shall we play, Mummy?”
“Let’s play pretend. We will imagine the sort of place we would like to move to, and when we open our eyes, that’s where we shall be.”
“How do we play?”
One last look at the meteor- it was almost time.
“Close your eyes and imagine the place, and count to thirty out loud. Just like when we play Hide-and-Seek.” She curled herself around her son, both of them now laid on the beach.
“Ok, Mummy. 1, 2, 3, 4…”
She watched the meteor approach with sad eyes, and just before it hit land she turned her head, laying it and her neck over her son and bracing herself.
Her son had not yet said 30, but it was over.
what the fuck is wrong with you
WOW HOLY FUCK THANKS FOR SHITTING ALL OVER MY HEART
THIS IS NOT FUCKING OK I AM SOBBING
Stories that Give Me Hope.
Iron Man (2008): Deleted Scenes
Tony Comes Home
can you imagine though, jarvis all alone in tony’s malibu house? jarvis who of course doesn’t have any physical form at all, jarvis who at this point occupies just the house and tony’s phone—jarvis, who is dependent on tony for everything, who lives essentially in tony’s pocket, suddenly being completely alone for the first time in his silicon life.
and every ten minutes on the dot for days and days and days he accesses the latest news reports, re-calculating and re-calculating tony’s chances at survival, endlessly running the numbers. and nobody told him to do that. tony’s house was empty and dark and nobody told jarvis to keep an eye on the news but he did. jarvis could have just spun down his hard drives and gone into hibernate mode, but he didn’t.
no, he watched the news. he stood vigil. he waited and he hoped that his calculations were wrong. that one day he would be able to say welcome home, sir once more.
Emotional state: upset about robots.
Well yea, kids get upset when their parent isn’t around.
I HAVE SO MANY JARVIS FEELS RIGHT NOW
did you just get me upset over automated intelligence?
IMAGINE IF YOU WERE DATING A ROBOT AND THEY GOT CUTELY WORRIED ABOUT YOUR WELL BEING BECAUSE HUMANS ARE MORE DELICATE THEN ROBOTS LIKE IF YOU STAYED UP REALLY LATE AND THEY GOT WORRIED BECAUSE “HUMANS NEED TO HAVE A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF TIME RECHARGING FOR ALL THEIR SYSTEMS TO RUN OPTIMALLY”
and then they try to wake you up by tapping your arm and being like “humans require 5 to 6 cycles of sleep and you slept through 6 please wake up.”
and then when you die, they wait by your grave until they rust completely through because their directive has no meaning without you
a drunk driver killed someone i love. i thought maybe, if i kept it up, i might hear something back…This is so beyond heart breaking, yet so extremely powerful. Never forget to tell your family, friends, and others you love them. It may be the last time you do so!
i think about these kinda things a lot
it’s even sadder when you consider that eevee evolves to sylveon with love (and umbreon with friendship)
so this eevee really loved its trainer when it evolved
only to be greeted with this
I watched this for the second time with my bf last winter. SUCH GREAT ACTING! When this scene happened, my bf glanced over at me and I had tears streaming down my face. He immediately got all concerned and huggly X3 I was like “I’M SORRY -sobbing- I just get.. emotionally invested.. and put myself in their place!”
hOW IT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED
i did a sad non-linear narrative for my media & concepts class!
i’m just gonna leave this here as a reminder that “hitting bottom” doesn’t mean “staying on bottom for the rest of your life and dying as a piece of crap”
I will never, ever, not reblog this.
*huggles RDJ* Anyone on here who loves him, someone posted an amazing story about him when he was younger. I wish knew where the link was so I could share it. Instead, it’s just cut and pasted below. If I find the link, I’ll replace it with that.
I will also say that I have read this several times now and it still makes me cry.
“True story: His Name is Robert Downey Jr.” by Dana Reinhardt
I’m willing to go out on a limb here and guess that most stories of kindness do not begin with drug addicted celebrity bad boys.
His name is Robert Downey Jr.
You’ve probably heard of him. You may or may not be a fan, but I am, and I was in the early 90’s when this story takes place.
It was at a garden party for the ACLU of Southern California. My stepmother was the executive director, which is why I was in attendance without having to pay the $150 fee. It’s not that I don’t support the ACLU, it’s that I was barely twenty and had no money to speak of.
I was escorting my grandmother. There isn’t enough room in this essay to explain to you everything she was, I would need volumes, so for the sake of brevity I will tell you that she was beautiful even in her eighties, vain as the day is long, and whip smart, though her particular sort of intelligence did not encompass recognizing young celebrities.
I pointed out Robert Downey Jr. to her when he arrived, in a gorgeous cream-colored linen suit, with Sarah Jessica Parker on his arm. My grandmother shrugged, far more interested in piling her paper plate with various unidentifiable cheeses cut into cubes. He wasn’t Carey Grant or Gregory Peck. What did she care?
The afternoon’s main honoree was Ron Kovic, whose story of his time in the Vietnam War that had left him confined to a wheelchair had recently been immortalized in the Oliver Stone film Born on the Fourth of July.
I mention the wheelchair because it played an unwitting role in what happened next.
We made our way to our folding chairs in the garden with our paper plates and cubed cheeses and we watched my stepmother give one of her eloquent speeches and a plea for donations, and there must have been a few other people who spoke but I can’t remember who, and then Ron Kovic took the podium, and he was mesmerizing, and when it was all over we stood up to leave, and my grandmother tripped.
We’d been sitting in the front row (nepotism has its privileges) and when she tripped she fell smack into the wheelchair ramp that provided Ron Kovic with access to the stage. I didn’t know that wheelchair ramps have sharp edges, but they do, at least this one did, and it sliced her shin right open.
The volume of blood was staggering.
I’d like to be able to tell you that I raced into action; that I quickly took control of the situation, tending to my grandmother and calling for the ambulance that was so obviously needed, but I didn’t. I sat down and put my head between my knees because I thought I was going to faint. Did I mention the blood?
Luckily, somebody did take control of the situation, and that person was Robert Downey Jr.
He ordered someone to call an ambulance. Another to bring a glass of water. Another to fetch a blanket. He took off his gorgeous linen jacket and he rolled up his sleeves and he grabbed hold of my grandmother’s leg, and then he took that jacket that I’d assumed he’d taken off only to it keep out of the way, and he tied it around her wound. I watched the cream colored linen turn scarlet with her blood.
He told her not to worry. He told her it would be alright. He knew, instinctively, how to speak to her, how to distract her, how to play to her vanity. He held onto her calf and he whistled. He told her how stunning her legs were.
She said to him, to my humiliation: “My granddaughter tells me you’re a famous actor but I’ve never heard of you.”
He stayed with her until the ambulance came and then he walked alongside the stretcher holding her hand and telling her she was breaking his heart by leaving the party so early, just as they were getting to know each other. He waved to her as they closed the doors. “Don’t forget to call me, Silvia,” he said. “We’ll do lunch.”
He was a movie star, after all.
Believe it or not, I hurried into the ambulance without saying a word. I was too embarrassed and too shy to thank him.
We all have things we wish we’d said. Moments we’d like to return to and do differently. Rarely do we get that chance to make up for those times that words failed us. But I did. Many years later.
I should mention here that when Robert Downey Jr. was in prison for being a drug addict (which strikes me as absurd and cruel, but that’s the topic for a different essay), I thought of writing to him. Of reminding him of that day when he was humanity personified. When he was the best of what we each can be. When he was the kindest of strangers.
But I didn’t.
Some fifteen years after that garden party, ten years after my grandmother had died and five since he’d been released from prison, I saw him in a restaurant.
I grew up in Los Angeles where celebrity sightings are commonplace and where I was raised to respect people’s privacy and never bother someone while they’re out having a meal, but on this day I decided to abandon the code of the native Angeleno, and my own shyness, and I approached his table.
I said to him, “I don’t have any idea if you remember this…” and I told him the story.
“I just wanted to thank you,” I said. “And I wanted to tell you that it was simply the kindest act I’ve ever witnessed.”
He stood up and he took both of my hands in his and he looked into my eyes and he said, “You have absolutely no idea how much I needed to hear that today.”
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