No amount of gifsets could ever do this justice
Category: Uncategorized
advice for college freshmen:
tolkien your essays; hemingway your emails
essays are tangents and rabbit holes and diversions, woven together with lots of unnecessary descriptive words to demonstrate a proficient understanding of a subject you were meant to research in more depth but did not, in place of other pursuits, or could not, because you chose your subject poorly, and so now you must flesh out an arduous ten-page research paper and convince your scrutinizing instructor that you are well-versed in the topic at hand.
emails are blunt. say what you mean. be specific. end it quickly.
also, you will painstakingly craft an email to a professor, using the correct salutations and not being rude and lowkey stressing over it, and the response will be “THanks -Howrd”, so don’t stress over it
I wish that there wasn’t this feeling of “Haha, I suck.” Among fan fiction writers.
Don’t apologize for not being able to update regularly.
Don’t apologize for what happens in your life.
Enjoy taking your time with things. Update when you want. Consume other works when (and while) you’re stuck.
You’re not a word generating machine. You’re a person, and I am grateful that you’ve chosen to share your stories with us.
Thank you.
AHHHHHHHH THANK YOU
arthur weasley, aka the world’s biggest muggleboo who probably larps as an office worker on the weekends
officemaster: you have… *rolls dice* successfully transferred the call to your boss’ voicemail! you hear the distant ringing of the fellytone from the inner office for a moment before the machine picks up, securely delivering the regional manager’s message to its intended recipient.
arthur weasley: *pumps fist in air, high-fives xenophilius lovegood*
sirius black: is it my turn yet?
officemaster: no.
xenophilius lovegood: i search the supply closet for binder clips.
officemaster: *rolls dice* you find a small cardboard box with three binder clips in it, but in the process of retrieving it from the high shelf, you knock a bottle of toner off. it hits your left pinky toe. *rolls dice* you lose 1 HP.
xenophilius lovegood: best fetch quest EVER.
sirius black: so is it my turn now?
officemaster: no, shut up. remus?
remus lupin: wait, is arthur still at the front desk?
arthur weasley: yeah
remus lupin: i approach the front desk. *clears throat* “Hello, Shirley. Were there any messages for me while I was out?”
arthur weasley: “Yes, Mr. Crumplebottom. Phillip Smythe from home office called about your business trip. I put him through to your voicemail.”
remus lupin: “Good work! Thank you very much. I shall remeber this come time for your Christmas bonus.”
sirius black: is it my turn yettt???
officemaster: merlin’s balls man, yes, it’s your turn
sirius black: i attempt to seduce the visiting sales representative
remus lupin: what? you can’t do that
sirius black: sure i can, i have like 25 charisma points
remus lupin: but we’ve all got the casual friday modifier right now, and if you get a sexual harassment lawsuit we can’t advance to the next meeting until the litigation phase is over
sirius black: i’m chaotic neutral, what were you expecting?
remus lupin: besides, arthur’s receptionist character found out she was married in the last session, remember? you would have to roll a natural 20
arthur weasley: hey, no metagaming–sirius’ character wasn’t there at the time, he was trapped in the fax machine
xenophilius lovegood: i still don’t think that’s how fax machines actually work
officemaster: sirius?
sirius black: yeah, arthur’s right, i couldn’t have known about that. *shrugs* i attempt to seduce her.
remus lupin: oh my god i hate you so much right now
sirius black: get bent lupin
remus lupin: you wish
sirius black: i don’t have to
officemaster: *rolls dice* *winces*
sirius black: what? what happened?
Yeah! What happened?!
Sirius botched both his action and his save. His character was fatally bear-maced in the face. Remus’ character was forced to spend an entire session on sensitivity training for his remaining employees. Sirius returned in the following session as a dual-class IT guy and paladin.
I just realised where Kylo got his name from:
Ky = sKYwalker
Lo = soLO
Ren = literally just his birth name with an R
which means that when he was choosing his super scary Dark Lord name, he just mashed up the surnames of the most positive figures in his life. poor sod can’t even evil right
literally a ‘what is your star wars name’ meme
2nd two letters of your mother’s last name
Last two letters of your father’s last name1st three letters of your name but with an R
I adopted nine kids
(edit: tumblr has made these blurry, click for better view)
Just thinking about how it’s cool that our brains can process information instantaneously then it occurred to me that a measure of time we consider “instantaneous” may only seem instantaneous because that’s the limit of how quickly our brains can process information.
Need a better way to phrase this but our brains only seem super fast because the speed they run is literally the fastest thing we brain-dependent organisms can comprehend.
To a faster system, a second may seem excruciatingly long, and we humans appear to be stuck making dial-up noises for most of this excruciatingly long existence.
Someone make this into one of those tumblr alien stories where the aliens process everything at like, twice the speed of humans (so all aliens are basically low-key the Flash?) and whenever humans have to stop and think about what they’re going to say next or pause on an “um,” or “uh,” it is a test of the aliens’ patience.
“Should we be concerned for the human’s health, Kwo’nor? He has been making a pause noise for a very long time now”
“Do not worry, Kwo’sha, they just… do this sometimes”
The Quixnor are an ancient species.
Their dusty clay relics set the earliest civilizations back 50,000 generations. Every edge and isle and rocky new shoreline has been discovered, rediscovered, populated and decimated in the endless ebb and flow of time. Every corner of their red globe has been touched by Quixnor hands. Every moment packed brimming and dense with political action, scientific discovery, advent and breakthrough and progress. It would take 1,000 Quixnor lifetimes to understand even a fraction of their history. It would take unfathomable amounts more to understand the yottabytes of information stored in the species’ silicon archives.
This kind of history–rich and overflowing and incomprehensibly massive–is only to be expected of a species which has survived for 100 trillion Quixnor Eons.
Or, in metric, 5.28374 minutes.
The Quixnor, in that time, have learned much, discovered much, conquered much, mastered much, but some things remain forever outside the edges of their comprehension. At the forefront of this is the Frozen Ones. In the ever-scientific minds of the Quixnor people, there is no natural phenomenon more marvelous, more wondrous, and more terrifying than the Frozen Ones.
The Frozen Ones are an alien species. They are similar to the Quixnor in shape, and structure, and anatomy, and society. They are far off on an enormous watery planet easily visible on the scopes of the Quixnors vastly advanced telescopes. The Frozen Ones are easily observed, yet impossible to study, as their individuals have existed for timescales the Quixnor cannot represent in words or numbers. Scientists say the Frozen Ones’ kind have existed for Eons whose numeric representation contains millions of digits. No one truly understands what this magnitude means, not even the scientists.
The Frozen Ones do not move. They do not breathe. Their hearts do not beat. Their synapses do not fire.
The Frozen Ones are not dead.
They are, as best as the Quixnor scientists can reason, still very well alive, and somehow living on a timescale so enormous that millions of Eons may pass unheeded between inhales, between heartbeats. The Frozen Ones can do this without dying. On a more incredulous level–they can do this without even noticing.
The Quixnor have sent out countless contacts to the Frozen Ones, spanning thousands of Eons, two-dozen generations. They understand they will never see the result in their lifetime, nor their children, nor their grandchildren. The hope is only that some day, some Quixnor may hear a word back from one of the great, anomalous Frozen Ones…
…
James Buckman hitches up his pants and sniffs experimentally at his right hand as he leaves the men’s room. There’s a tepid cup of coffee getting colder on his desk and a buzzing plastic fan fluttering the edges of a few dog eared reports. His pen fell while he was gone.
He drops back into his seat, hand to his stubbly chin and attention set to the half-stack of documents he’d abandoned ten minutes earlier. He pauses, watery eyes shifting to the little satellite receiver angled on his desk. James does a double-take, chest tight at the tiny, green blurb which has appeared on his monitor.
Hello, Frozen One. We have learned your language from the great frozen world around you. You are remarkable to us. We are called the Quixnor. We’ve attached a humble, 1,293 page report of our species’ history for perusal at your leisure. The report includes instructions to contact us in return. We are greatly eager to hear from you, and to understand what your life is like on a timescale so massive.
The text begins to scroll. James’s eyes dart along at the flood. He blinks, baffled, and stares out at the cloudless sky for any visible source of the signal.
There is none. James’s bathroom break had lasted 11 minutes. The entire Quixnor civilization had birthed and died in less than 7.
tommen baratheon is the lone cinnamon roll in a sea of problematic faves
We all know that Hoth was a simmering mess of hormones and stress and I would pay good money for a soap opera about them. Here are some things which Definitely Happened:
- There’s a betting pool going on who takes Luke’s virginity. The favourites are Han and Leia, but Wedge Antilles has pretty good odds, and there’s a small contingent of aliens who are convinced it will be Chewie (after all, who could resist that Wookie musk? Headcanon: most alien races consider humans soft and gross. Most alien races find Wookies absurdly attractive. Han Solo isn’t the ladykiller; Chewie is.)
- Leia and Han scream at each other in every corner of the base. Everyone is desperate for them to fuck. They do not. The sexual tension is so thick that it could be cut into blocks and sold as wall insulation. More than once they are ‘accidentally’ locked in a supply cupboard in the vain hope that claustrophobia will act as the catalyst that enables their frustration to spark into true love – or at least nasty raunchy cupboard sex. It does not. All that happens is that the offender has legally changed their name to escape the Wrath of Organa.
- Someone paints a shirtless Han Solo on their X Wing. Leia is furious. Han is delighted: both at the highly flattering portrait (he has an eight-pack, he is shredded) and at Leia’s fury (you’re jealous princess/no I am not/you’re jealous, hey I can pose like that for you if you –). Hoth’s winter had nothing on the chilly silence that followed that suggestion.
- Luke and Leia both have very graphic dreams about Han Solo. Han Solo has very graphic dreams about the twins – individually, together, he’s thirty fucking years old, why is his brain doing this to him.(Later on they will, individually, realise that due to Luke and Leia’s Force-bond they probably created a circle of Han Solo Sex Dreams: Leia had them, so Luke sensed her lust for Han which intensified his own lust for Han, which led to Luke having Han Solo sex dreams, which led to Leia lusting – and so on, and so on. For the sake of their sanity, they never share this revelation which each other.)
- Luke is SO COLD. All the time. WHY DOES NO ONE APPRECIATE HOW COLD HE IS. He comes from a desert world. Of course he’s cold! What is all this white stuff? It was pretty for the first fve seconds but holy fucking Force it is so cold it burns and what the hell is going on with that? He bundles himself up in so many layers that he waddles rather than walks. Fearsome Last of the Jedi indeed.
- Luke tapes a knife to a cleaning droid (disc-shaped things that swish around the base, sucking up dirt) and names it Stabby. Why, says Leia. Luke, the boy from Tatooine, shining and happy despite everything says why not. Why not indeed. Stabby is very fond of chasing Han. Han wants desperately to shoot the fucking thing– but then he sees big-eyed Luke and sharp-toothed Leia cooing over it and, well. A little bit of light stabbing is nothing, compared to those two smiling.
STABBY THE SPACE ROOMBA!
I am torn between wanting Stabby to be grabbed and evacuated along with the Rebels and make it to the next base, and wanting Stabby to get Vader.
Compromise: shortly after losing the Millennium Falcon, Vader, storming through the Rebel base, is startled to feel a sudden jolt of pain from the artificial sensors on his left leg prosthetic: a sharp sensation on his ankle. Surprised, because he sensed no threat–is the limb malfunctioning?–he looks down, and there is a cleaning droid with a knife taped to it, a little painted-on Rebel lieutenant’s insignia, and the word STABBY written on it.
He stares down at it, completely and utterly taken aback for the first time in over a decade. Fearlessly, it chitters back at him, sounding very triumphant.
He picks it up.
Off in the fractal weirdness of hyperspace, Rebels on several ships are surprised to find an update on Stabby’s kill-update feed, and then thoroughly shocked at the accompanying image: the upward-pointing camera has captured an image of Darth Vader staring down at the droid.
It’s the fastest news ever to travel through the Rebel grapevine, the mix of triumph and loss that is, they are certain, Stabby’s heroic last stand.
Until a day later, when the thing updates again, this time showing an extremely confused Imperial officer. And another, and another, and another, day after day.
They cancel the funeral.
Vader hasn’t done much just for the fun of it in two decades. Watching Imperial officers swear and clutch their ankles as a cleaning drone with a knife taped to it, an Imperial emblem, lieutenant’s insignia, and the word STABBY painted on it, bumps into them and then chatters triumphantly, he’s figured he’s earned.
STABBY FIC! STABBY STARWARS FIC! YOU HAVE MADE MY DAY!
But do they send in a rescue unit to reclaim their most honorable POW?
no, the rebels are all too happy to have vader backing one of their most valuable psychological weapons. stabby’s antics are invaluable for their ability to escalate tension within imperial ranks, and vader’s personal amusement means stabby will get to keep running his miniature interference mission for a long time to come
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSS
STABBY LIVESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Grand Moff Tarkin limps into Vader’s quarters. Again. “Lord Vader, enough of this.”
“I have altered the droid; pray I do not alter it any further.”
(If there’s one thing young Anakin Skywalker can appreciate, it’s a hot-rodded maintenance droid, c’mon.)
VADER PUTS A LIGHTSABRE ON STABBY
HE CALLS IT HIS APPRENTICE
MY SON WILL NOT TURN TO THE DARKSIDE BUT MY SON’S STABBY SON WILL
Stabby is eventually recovered and given a medal after the defeat of the Emperor, but his poor little chassis is too badly damaged by then to even hold onto the knife anymore. His internal mechanism is removed and upgraded, and then the Master Droid Tech charged with fixing him casts around for a new casing to put him in.
“Hey!” calls a teenaged Poe Dameron, walking into the Droid repair shop. “I got this decommissioned BB-8 chassis they said to bring in here. It needs a new owner. Captain said I can have it if I can find a new mechanism for it.”
The Master Droid Tech looks at Stabby, then at the BB-8 chassis, then back at Stabby. Stabby turns his unsheathed ocular sensor to Poe and beeps adoringly. (This is a common if relatively new reaction to Poe Dameron, who has just graduated from his Awkward Stage.)
“Yeah, I got one for you right here,” the Tech says, grinning.
