chekov private comming sulu in the middle of into darkness because he feels like he’s in over his head and he’s close to tears and then sulu reminds him about his first day on the enterprise and the external dampeners and he can hear chekov’s teary choked laugh on the other end and it suddenly hits him that if the warp core doesnt get fixed there’s a chance he’ll never get to see pavel’s face again.
(via gyzym)
The other, larger reason why the clip is not equivalent, and Abrams is missing the point, is because Cumberbatch’s character is not being ogled, against his specifically expressed will, by a third party who holds his career and freedom in their hands, as scientist stowaway Carol Marcus was. In fact, there isn’t even another character in the scene! Apparently Star Fleet prisoners, men awaiting trials for terrorism and murder, get their privacy. No matter how hilariously grumpy they look.
(via thefeministfangirl)
The King of Videobombs.
So, I paint my nails pretty regularly these days. I also work as a barista/cashier pretty regularly these days. A few weeks back, I had a customer come in, a fairly typical, sheltered, suburban soccer mom, and she ordered a latte from me. She saw my brightly colored nails and said, “Wow, you’re so brave! My son asked me about painting his nails, and if it’s okay for boys to do that. Now I’ll tell him there’s a cool guy who does it too!” It was a nice moment, very cute.
Then, last week, she came in again, and said, “Hey, I’m so glad you’re here! I want you to meet someone!” She then brings her son forward, and says, “Okay sweetie, show him what you did!” And he throws his hands up, showing off his bright, sparkling blue nails. He shows them off, and I show mine off to him. He smiles. We fist bump.
Guys, I’ve only wanted to cry once at work before, and that was when someone ordered a large dry soy cappuccino on ice.
This time, though. This was a good cry.
(via flatbear)
Incidental Comics by Grant Snider [website | tumblr | twitter]
second viewing of stid 1000% worth it for the moment when, in walking out of the theater, the middle aged woman in front of me turned to her husband and said, “wait, was i supposed to be SCARED of that horse-faced white boy?!”
I love both old Bones and new Bones, but there’s only one I lust after.
(Source: chekovyourprivilege, via gyzym)
The flower she is named for, creamy white petals and center glowing gold, is plucked and plucked and plucked for love. It is a cruel name to give a girl whose eyes are fixed on the horizon, but then, what name wasn’t, in those days? What name would have been more fitting for the child reared beneath hothouse lights, cultivated in thick, rich soil, grown entire for the plucking? She thinks she would have preferred gardenia, but it’s not as thought it would be fit to mention it. It’s not as though anyone would think to ask.
He loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not; he loves me, he loves me not; he loves me. Of course, for Daisy Buchanan, it’s not as though love was the problem.
You know how it is, right, ladies? You know a guy for a while. You hang out with him. You do fun things with him—play video games, watch movies, go hiking, go to concerts. You invite him to your parties. You listen to his problems. You do all this because you think he wants to be your friend.
But then, then comes the fateful moment where you find out that all this time, he’s only seen you as a potential girlfriend. And then if you turn him down, he may never speak to you again. This has happened to me time after time: I hit it off with a guy, and, for all that I’ve been burned in the past, I start to think that this one might actually care about me as a person. And then he asks me on a date.
I tell him how much I enjoy his company, how much I value his friendship. I tell him that I really want to be his friend and to continue hanging out with him and talking about our favorite books or exploring new restaurants or making fun of avant-garde theatre productions. But he rejects me. He doesn’t answer my calls or e-mails; if we’d been making plans to do something before this fateful incident, these plans mysteriously fail to materialize. (This is why I never did get around to seeing the Hunger Games movie. Not to name any names, but thanks a lot, Tom.) Later, when I run into him at social events, our conversations are awkward and lukewarm. This is because the moment we met, he put me in the girlfriend-zone, and now he can’t see me as friend material.
I must say that I find this really unfair. I mean, I’m a nice girl. I have a lot to offer as a friend, like not being a douchebag and stuff. But males just don’t want to be friends with nice girls like me. They can’t help it, I guess; it’s just how they’re wired, biologically. Evolution conditioned our male hominid ancestors to seek nice girls as mates and form friendship bonds only with the other dudes that they hunted mammoths with. It’s true—I know this because I studied hominids in my fifth-grade science class.
So what’s the answer? Should I take up mammoth-hunting in an attempt to appeal to the friendship centers of men’s primal lizardbrains? Should I keep making guy “friends” and then prevent them from making a move on me by subtly undermining their self-confidence? Should I just give up on those manipulative, game-playing, two-faced bastards once and for all? I don’t know. I mean, I’d really like to have a true friendship with a guy someday, but it’s so hard to trust and respect them when they never say what they mean—and you never know when you might be relegated to the girlfriend-zone.
ahhhhhhhh love it
(via marchingjaybird)
I am going to tell you a story about llamas. It will be like every other story you have ever heard about llamas: how they are covered in fine scales; how they…THIS. This is fantastic. *applauds* Also some fantastic artwork in the article.
(via marchingjaybird)
