agender-cecil-palmer:

DYLAN GOT MARRIED I REPEAT DYLAN GOT MARRIED CUTENESS LEVELS MAXIMUM THIS IS NOT A DRILL AHHHHHHH CONGRATS YOU ABSOLUTE DARLING

BEAUTIFUL DYLAN AND HIS BEAUTIFUL HUSBAND BEING BEAUTIFUL TOGETHER AHHH <3333.  CONGRATS!!!

agender-cecil-palmer:

DYLAN GOT MARRIED
I REPEAT
DYLAN GOT MARRIED
CUTENESS LEVELS MAXIMUM THIS IS NOT A DRILL
AHHHHHHH CONGRATS YOU ABSOLUTE DARLING

BEAUTIFUL DYLAN AND HIS BEAUTIFUL HUSBAND BEING BEAUTIFUL TOGETHER AHHH <3333.  CONGRATS!!!

jbaxteranimator:

Says own name in horse voice.

JAYYYYMESSS BAXTER

I can’t believe James Baxter has a tumblr.  How is he this cool?!?

bloodredorion:

blackxmod:

scottreacher:

failedhellos:

mysteampunkheart:

lam681:

winmu:

scullylovesqueequeg:

tamtoee:

yeahmicah:

thegirlinthesea:

spookydatrump:

note-inthepages:

Accurate post is accurate.

Reminds me of the time a lady told me whip doesn’t melt. Or a guy yelled at me for not understanding him/hearing him because he kept talking on the phone

Lame

For those in retail.

I worked in a Lil Caesars and a woman came in and wanted a sausage pizza with no sausage, but got mad when she was given a cheese pizza.

So when I worked at fitting room in Old Navy, a woman told me that a medium top was too small, and that the large top was too large. So she asked me to find her an “x-medium”. Old Navy carries x-small, small, medium, large, x-large, 1x, 2x and 3x. There is no “x-medium”. But she insisted, so I went and found her an “x-medium” (which was just a medium in a different color but the same top, same make, same EVERYTHING) and she goes very happily, “THIS! THIS FITS ME PERFECTLY! THANK YOU SO MUCH! See, you can do anything you can set your mind to!”

I’m a waitress at a big fancy resort, and once a woman asked me for a diet water and when I told her there was no such thing she demanded to see my manager (who then also promptly told her there was no such thing and brought her regular water).Another occasion of stupidity occurred when a woman had been brought a steak cooked too much for her liking. I offered to take it back and bring her out a new one, cooked a little less, and she said “NO this one’s fine I just want you to cook THIS one a little less.” I then had to get the chef and have him explain why you can’t UNCOOK a steak.

When I was working at dunkin donuts there was this woman in the drive-thru who asked for a lightly toasted croissant and then started complaining that the croissant was warm. And wanted her money back, so she gave me the croissant back and I gave her the money and then she tells me “now i want my new croissant” she wanted a new one for free and as she was screaming at me this guy in a biker gang covered in tattoos leans over the counter in the store and yells “ma’am let me just tell you what we’re all thinking. fuck off, you stupid ****.” I couldn’t stop laughing and she drove away in anger.

Most of the people like in the stories above know that they’re being totally irrational, but also know that if they complain enough they’ll most likely get something free or discounted. So really most of the the nonsensical fucks are actually just cheap fucks with no shame or respect for people.

That last bit of commentary though.

Well then…

Really true, when I was working at Target I had this couple come to the counter with “broken” coloring books. These books I had put away at the beginning of my shift because they just came in. They asked for a discount on them and I had a distinct feeling they purposely broke the books. So I told them that there were more at the other aisle and that we will just send these to the manufacturer. They started yelling at me and calling me a little bitch. My manager came by and asked me what was going on. She finished their transaction, but didn’t give them the discount. She said “Anyone with that little of respect for someone trying to earn a living doesn’t need a discount”.

A lot of times, like the other person said, they’re trying to get a discount or free food. For example one time thus guy and family came in, initially complaining to my coworker about the price of the pizza… And then when I took the pizza to him he said there was a short strand of black hair in it.. mind you none of us had black hair… It was so transparent. And he demanded a discount, but my supervisor knew too, so he didn’t give him money back - he just made a new one… haha, the guy was upset. But dude, you don’t complain about the price and THEN make a claim like that- we could see right through it.

This reminds me of something John Green said.  Going on a hero&#8217;s journey.  You graduate from a school where you got to read or blow stuff up in science to a minimal wage job where you have to deal with people like this.  But through this experience you&#8217;ll learn never to be that crazy insane person.

bloodredorion:

blackxmod:

scottreacher:

failedhellos:

mysteampunkheart:

lam681:

winmu:

scullylovesqueequeg:

tamtoee:

yeahmicah:

thegirlinthesea:

spookydatrump:

note-inthepages:

Accurate post is accurate.

Reminds me of the time a lady told me whip doesn’t melt. Or a guy yelled at me for not understanding him/hearing him because he kept talking on the phone

Lame

For those in retail.

I worked in a Lil Caesars and a woman came in and wanted a sausage pizza with no sausage, but got mad when she was given a cheese pizza.

So when I worked at fitting room in Old Navy, a woman told me that a medium top was too small, and that the large top was too large. So she asked me to find her an “x-medium”. Old Navy carries x-small, small, medium, large, x-large, 1x, 2x and 3x. There is no “x-medium”. But she insisted, so I went and found her an “x-medium” (which was just a medium in a different color but the same top, same make, same EVERYTHING) and she goes very happily, “THIS! THIS FITS ME PERFECTLY! THANK YOU SO MUCH! See, you can do anything you can set your mind to!”

I’m a waitress at a big fancy resort, and once a woman asked me for a diet water and when I told her there was no such thing she demanded to see my manager (who then also promptly told her there was no such thing and brought her regular water).
Another occasion of stupidity occurred when a woman had been brought a steak cooked too much for her liking. I offered to take it back and bring her out a new one, cooked a little less, and she said “NO this one’s fine I just want you to cook THIS one a little less.” I then had to get the chef and have him explain why you can’t UNCOOK a steak.

When I was working at dunkin donuts there was this woman in the drive-thru who asked for a lightly toasted croissant and then started complaining that the croissant was warm. And wanted her money back, so she gave me the croissant back and I gave her the money and then she tells me “now i want my new croissant” she wanted a new one for free and as she was screaming at me this guy in a biker gang covered in tattoos leans over the counter in the store and yells “ma’am let me just tell you what we’re all thinking. fuck off, you stupid ****.” I couldn’t stop laughing and she drove away in anger.

Most of the people like in the stories above know that they’re being totally irrational, but also know that if they complain enough they’ll most likely get something free or discounted. So really most of the the nonsensical fucks are actually just cheap fucks with no shame or respect for people.

That last bit of commentary though.

Well then…

Really true, when I was working at Target I had this couple come to the counter with “broken” coloring books. These books I had put away at the beginning of my shift because they just came in. They asked for a discount on them and I had a distinct feeling they purposely broke the books. So I told them that there were more at the other aisle and that we will just send these to the manufacturer. They started yelling at me and calling me a little bitch. My manager came by and asked me what was going on. She finished their transaction, but didn’t give them the discount. She said “Anyone with that little of respect for someone trying to earn a living doesn’t need a discount”.

A lot of times, like the other person said, they’re trying to get a discount or free food. For example one time thus guy and family came in, initially complaining to my coworker about the price of the pizza… And then when I took the pizza to him he said there was a short strand of black hair in it.. mind you none of us had black hair… It was so transparent. And he demanded a discount, but my supervisor knew too, so he didn’t give him money back - he just made a new one… haha, the guy was upset. But dude, you don’t complain about the price and THEN make a claim like that- we could see right through it.

This reminds me of something John Green said.  Going on a hero’s journey.  You graduate from a school where you got to read or blow stuff up in science to a minimal wage job where you have to deal with people like this.  But through this experience you’ll learn never to be that crazy insane person.

(Source: 9gag, via eyesonthestar)

utteranonymity:

Fun little trick I learned in therapy: validation. When someone is upset, don’t try to fix the problem, point out the cause, or tell them it could be worse. Just validate their emotions. Be like, ‘shit yeah man, that sucks. I’m sorry you’re going through that. I’m here for you.’ That’s literally all you have to do to make them feel better. Thank you and goodnight.

THIS 1000x THIS

when people are hurting they just want someone to connect with to feel better.  You don’t need to fix nobody’s life for them, just BE THERE.

(via sonoci)

smiliu:

After my father’s suicide, I fell into despair. I now know it was PTSDBy Jordan Rivkin, The Guardian
Two years after my father killed himself, everything suddenly fell apart. I had failed to grieve and was plagued by nightmares. Now I understand why I was suffering
In 2005, my father killed himself. A high-profile figure, his suicide adorned the front page of newspapers, a private moment retrofitted for public consumption.
He had always been my hero, larger than life, and I adored him. But when I heard the news, I was struck by my detachment, my inability to cry. We had been exceptionally close, so my seemingly indifferent response to his death both perplexed and perturbed me. Was it stoicism? Courage? Neither made sense. If anything, I had always erred on the side of sentimentality and cowardice.
At his funeral, media scrum in tow, I comforted others. I took only a day or two off work, more as a mark of respect than an opportunity to mourn. And all the while, I marveled at my strength in the face of adversity.
I continued with my life as if nothing had happened. I set about keeping the family business going, and making sure my mum and sister were okay. I even aced my university exams a month or so after his death. I felt invincible, and so it was for just over two years.
Then in late 2007, something irrevocable shifted in me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something wasn’t quite right. I was consumed by acute hypochondria, and saw several doctors in an effort to identify my ailment. I was sure some neurological disorder was the culprit, and even insisted upon a brain MRI, which revealed nothing untoward.
Not long after, everything fell apart. I had no idea why, but my best guess was that either I was going crazy or dying. I quit work. I withdrew from university. And I retreated to bed, gripped by fear. You know that harrowing heroin withdrawal scene from the movie Trainspotting? That was me, writhing around the bed that had become my prison in paroxysms of anxious agony.
This incarceration lasted the better part of six months. Simple tasks like grocery shopping were only made possible thanks to my good friends Valium and Xanax. Socialising was out of the question without liberal amounts of alcohol.
All the while, the world looked different. It didn’t seem as real as it once had, and my head felt lost in a fog, like I wasn’t part of my surroundings. I felt like I was slipping away, and thought of death often during that time. I welcomed danger, and recall riding my bike and wishing a truck would hit me and put an end to my misery.
Sleep was a brief respite, but even then I managed only a few hours before waking with a start and falling down a hole of unrelenting fear and despair. I soon took to falling asleep wishing I wouldn’t wake. I wasn’t actively suicidal, though a lengthy coma would have suited me just fine.
How had I become this spectre of my former self? This question plagued me, and not knowing compounded my anxiety immeasurably.
One day I happened upon a book some concerned friends had given me in the months following my father’s death. It was about complicated grief and living in the wake of suicide. At the time I scoffed at their concern, and abandoned the book to some inconspicuous corner of my bookshelf.
But as I read it, I at once recognised my pain in those pages. Those living in the shadow of suicide are suffering not only from grief, but they are also reacting to a traumatic event. The pain, the fear, the disorientation – these are some of the hallmarks of PTSD.
It seems ludicrous now as I write this, but back then, I hadn’t even an inkling that my suffering might be related to my father’s suicide. I had been fine, and anyway, that was years ago. But post-traumatic stress symptoms can show up months, years or even decades later.
My feelings about my father’s death were complicated. I was relieved he was no longer suffering. I was angry with him for choosing to leave. I was saddened by his absence. But mostly I felt nothing, like an automaton who still tells the story as though it weren’t his own.
I had failed to grieve, or even fully acknowledge the reality that he was gone. It took me over a year to delete his number from my phone. I kept the leftovers of our last dinner together, only a few nights before his death, in the freezer for over five years. I just couldn’t bring myself to part with little reminders of him.
And the dreams. Some would call them nightmares, of course. Even now, several nights a week, he visits me in my sleep, often replaying various macabre scenes. His wanting to die. His asking my permission to die. His death. His lifeless body. But in some way, these dreams bring me comfort. In my dreams, he is still with me.
Along with therapy and antidepressants, understanding my trauma related symptoms was my path out of the darkness. I still struggle, but not like back then. All too often, PTSD is thought of as the product of war or natural disaster, but that is far too narrow a view. Trauma comes in many forms, and many who have lost someone to suicide need to know that they too have suffered a trauma. This is the first, and most important, step towards healing.
For more mental health resources, Click Here to access the Serious Mental Illness Blog.Click Here to access original SMI Blog content

smiliu:

After my father’s suicide, I fell into despair. I now know it was PTSD
By Jordan Rivkin, The Guardian

Two years after my father killed himself, everything suddenly fell apart. I had failed to grieve and was plagued by nightmares. Now I understand why I was suffering

In 2005, my father killed himself. A high-profile figure, his suicide adorned the front page of newspapers, a private moment retrofitted for public consumption.

He had always been my hero, larger than life, and I adored him. But when I heard the news, I was struck by my detachment, my inability to cry. We had been exceptionally close, so my seemingly indifferent response to his death both perplexed and perturbed me. Was it stoicism? Courage? Neither made sense. If anything, I had always erred on the side of sentimentality and cowardice.

At his funeral, media scrum in tow, I comforted others. I took only a day or two off work, more as a mark of respect than an opportunity to mourn. And all the while, I marveled at my strength in the face of adversity.

I continued with my life as if nothing had happened. I set about keeping the family business going, and making sure my mum and sister were okay. I even aced my university exams a month or so after his death. I felt invincible, and so it was for just over two years.

Then in late 2007, something irrevocable shifted in me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something wasn’t quite right. I was consumed by acute hypochondria, and saw several doctors in an effort to identify my ailment. I was sure some neurological disorder was the culprit, and even insisted upon a brain MRI, which revealed nothing untoward.

Not long after, everything fell apart. I had no idea why, but my best guess was that either I was going crazy or dying. I quit work. I withdrew from university. And I retreated to bed, gripped by fear. You know that harrowing heroin withdrawal scene from the movie Trainspotting? That was me, writhing around the bed that had become my prison in paroxysms of anxious agony.

This incarceration lasted the better part of six months. Simple tasks like grocery shopping were only made possible thanks to my good friends Valium and Xanax. Socialising was out of the question without liberal amounts of alcohol.

All the while, the world looked different. It didn’t seem as real as it once had, and my head felt lost in a fog, like I wasn’t part of my surroundings. I felt like I was slipping away, and thought of death often during that time. I welcomed danger, and recall riding my bike and wishing a truck would hit me and put an end to my misery.

Sleep was a brief respite, but even then I managed only a few hours before waking with a start and falling down a hole of unrelenting fear and despair. I soon took to falling asleep wishing I wouldn’t wake. I wasn’t actively suicidal, though a lengthy coma would have suited me just fine.

How had I become this spectre of my former self? This question plagued me, and not knowing compounded my anxiety immeasurably.

One day I happened upon a book some concerned friends had given me in the months following my father’s death. It was about complicated grief and living in the wake of suicide. At the time I scoffed at their concern, and abandoned the book to some inconspicuous corner of my bookshelf.

But as I read it, I at once recognised my pain in those pages. Those living in the shadow of suicide are suffering not only from grief, but they are also reacting to a traumatic event. The pain, the fear, the disorientation – these are some of the hallmarks of PTSD.

It seems ludicrous now as I write this, but back then, I hadn’t even an inkling that my suffering might be related to my father’s suicide. I had been fine, and anyway, that was years ago. But post-traumatic stress symptoms can show up months, years or even decades later.

My feelings about my father’s death were complicated. I was relieved he was no longer suffering. I was angry with him for choosing to leave. I was saddened by his absence. But mostly I felt nothing, like an automaton who still tells the story as though it weren’t his own.

I had failed to grieve, or even fully acknowledge the reality that he was gone. It took me over a year to delete his number from my phone. I kept the leftovers of our last dinner together, only a few nights before his death, in the freezer for over five years. I just couldn’t bring myself to part with little reminders of him.

And the dreams. Some would call them nightmares, of course. Even now, several nights a week, he visits me in my sleep, often replaying various macabre scenes. His wanting to die. His asking my permission to die. His death. His lifeless body. But in some way, these dreams bring me comfort. In my dreams, he is still with me.

Along with therapy and antidepressants, understanding my trauma related symptoms was my path out of the darkness. I still struggle, but not like back then. All too often, PTSD is thought of as the product of war or natural disaster, but that is far too narrow a view. Trauma comes in many forms, and many who have lost someone to suicide need to know that they too have suffered a trauma. This is the first, and most important, step towards healing.

For more mental health resources, Click Here to access the Serious Mental Illness Blog.
Click Here
 to access original SMI Blog content

rin-matsuokas-hips:

conductoroftardislight:

heartofalifer:

SOMETIMES I GET SO FUCKING ANGRY WHEN I REMEMBER THAT I AM A GIRL BECAUSE MY MONEY HAS TO GO TO BUYING BRAS FOR THESE STUPID ORGANIC MILK BAGS AND PADS FOR MONTHLY UNWANTED SUBSCRIPTION OF LUCIFER’S WATERFALL LIKE WTF MAN WHY DONT THESE THINGS COME FREE WHEN MY UNWANTED PACKAGE IS GIVEN TO ME SERIOUSLY THO

organic milk bags

monthly subscription to lucifer’s waterfall

This is me at 4pm every few weeks

(via can-i-just-hug-you-pwease)

826valencia:

Don’t these photos of meals from famous books look good enough to read?

cloudyskiesandcatharsis:

Fictitious Dishes, Famous Meals From Literature by Dinah Fried

I’m eating all of these while reading the book from now on

(via awkward-aeries)

Sooo fantastic!  My favorite style.  The girl’s smoky voice is just wonderful.

(Source: francesksgk)

Just an experiment. Reblog if you actually give a fuck about male victims of domestic violence and rape.

jimfear138:

thespectacularspider-girl:

loganmcowen:

xaldien:

loganmcowen:

Of fucking course

What sick bastard doesn’t

"You’d be surprised", said Xaldien, who just lost four followers and received a lovely "men can’t be raped" anon shortly after reblogging this the first time.

Yowch, disgusting.

I’m glad my followers are infinitely more classy than that.  Depraved and perverted, sure, but classy none the less.

image

(via miercatt)

spoopyputin:

conchitacouldyounot:

In which an anonymous voice from the crowd says what we all think.

I WAS STANDING NEXT TO THE PERSON WHO SCREAMED THIS OMG

(via mareliini)