aureolinthoughts

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sorry if i’m being a party pooper but because rabies is apparently the new joke on here ??? please remember that rabies has an almost 100% fatality rate after symptoms develop so if you’re bitten or scratched by an animal that you aren’t 100% sure is vaccinated then GO TO A DOCTOR. it’s not a joke. really. 

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what does the revolution must not be televised mean?

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just a TON pic spam 😍😍

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"I loved women so much that it was easy for them to hurt me. I don't mean to say that women are bad. ALL people are bad. I HATE people. I'm not racist, because I myself am of Icelandic-Scottish-Russian-Polish origin. No, I hate the 'human race' as such. Black, White, Asian or from Iceland, I hate you. And do you know why? Because you are a human and will use every opportunity to destroy me. I don't trust anyone. I was hurt very much by some women that I really loved. One after the other, of course- I never had a harem or anything. I trusted them, and they fucked my best friend, for example. When you are with a woman, not just sexually, but very passionately, you say all these beautiful things to each other and there are actually two hearts that belong together. It's unbelievable when something like that happens. How can you do that?"

~Peter Steele~ Rock Hard Interview 1998

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Shit, it's Peter again...

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I love how all of the Batman villains are like “ah he’s not at the manor, it’s defenseless! and then alfred just racks an AK-47 and is like pull up bitch

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Okay I need to ask. Why do YOU write?

I grew up surrounded by words, quite literally. By the time I was six months old my parents had taped words to every surface in the house, so the walls said “wall” the window said “window” and so on so forth. I still don’t know how they managed to get the cat involved but some things are meant to be wondered at.

But for the next six years the world was covered in words, as first I learned to read, and then my brother. I dare say if you move some furniture in my parents house to this day you will find a faded piece of paper that says “shelf” or “bookcase” on it. It was a sad day when they were taken down, they were like old friends. But by then the magic had already worked. I was able to look at the world and see words, whether they were printed there or not.

I was four when I sat down to consciously write my first story. I remember it vividly because I had my bright yellow Cadburys Caramel mug, that had the purple flowing font on the side with the bunny rabbit lady on it. It was filled with “baby tea”— mostly hot milk with a splash of tea from the pot to give it color— and I was holding it in both hands, sitting at the little “art” table dad had built for me in the corner so I had a place to sit and scribble that wasn’t the walls. Contemplating my next masterpiece I looked around the room for inspiration. Would it be an exploration of color through pinky finger painting only? Or would it be the greatest macaroni interpretation of a dog we’d ever seen? Sadly we’ll never know how this might have worked out, as at that very moment, mum came in holding a crystal mobile and hung it up on the window sill. This in turn had the effect of creating a living, dancing rainbow in the living room, and something in my brain short fused.

That was the day I learned the word “iridescent”. It was like learning the language of angels.

After that I was always scribbling something. My school books were a mess of words, crammed into margins and on back pages. I was always in trouble for letting my mind “wander into whimsy.” Once I got a report card that said “fantastical leanings towards flights of fancy.” It was meant as criticism, but dad still has it framed in the office.

Then there came the time a few years later when I was reading the Hobbit with dad, and I turned to him quite seriously and asked “where are all the girl hobbits?” and dad hemmed and hawed before eventually telling me “they’re in another book, darling…having their own adventure…” and I accepted this and settled back down to let him finish the chapter. He probably thought I forgot about it until that weekend I marched up to the Librarian and asked for “the girl hobbit book please”, which was met with much confusion and my dad rushing over to tell me they probably wouldn’t have it yet because it was very rare. A few weeks later, dad handed me something. It was sheaves of paper bound together by string. It was, he told me, a very exclusive copy of the girl hobbit book.

I still have it somewhere, back home. Probably on a shelf somewhere that still says “shelf”.

And sweet, naive thing that I was, I believed him. It wasn’t until later on and someone else popped my bubble, that I realized dad, not Tolkien, had written it. And oh I was furious, furious because the story had been so good and because dad had lied about not writing it himself. But that small bubbling anger was nothing compared to the heat inside my brain when my dad confessed he’d tried without much success to find books I might like with girls in them. All the heroes were boys, you see. It made me quite tearful actually, that no one had ever thought that someone like me could go off on an adventure and save the world, when I knew it to be a blatant lie. Old Mrs McDougall across the street had been a land girl and saved a man shot down from his spitfire. Mrs Mitchell had been the emergency coordinator and saved people from burning buildings when the Nazis bombed the shipyards, and her skin was all bubbled and tightly pulled across the left side of her face because of it and her hands didn’t quite work because she’d gripped burning metal to try and free the men inside. Those, were heroes. But we never learned about them at school. We only learned about kings and tyrants and the kind of heavily filtered history that lead you to believe that women were in there somewhere, but only in the same sense that a wall has paint on it.

And now my books, my lovely wonderful books, where you could travel through space and time or climb up volcanoes to throw rings inside and save the world…those wonderful colorful worlds that spoke the language of angels, were just the same.

I was ready to cry and be defeated about it until dad, raising his eyebrows at me and offering me a notebook, said, “well, maybe someone ought to write one.”

And you likely know the rest by now. But in short I write because there are stories to be told. I write because it’s the closest I’ll ever be to how the word iridescent feels. I look at the world and I see words, dancing like rainbows, singing like angels.

There’s words everywhere. I’m just scribbling them down.

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Random question, does anyone have a stand mixer they love that isn’t Kitchen Aid?

The motor on mine just died for the second time and is now out of warranty, so I’m reluctant to save up for and spend the $500 something price tag for something which I had to replace numerous parts for and then still had problems with :/

I do have a hand mixer we can use in the interim, but given my lack of hand strength and general stability in the kitchen, it’s not ideal for the long term.

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Duke and Jason Being Hood Kids - Part 11

“That’s why you glow in the dark,” Jason says around a mouthful of green beans.

“That why your stupid ass was dead.”

Dinner comes to a screeching halt. Or, rather, a painfully silent halt, because the dining room is quiet and it feels like all the air got sucked out of the room. Bruce is horrified. Dick looks close to tears. Tim and Damian look equal parts nervous and prepared to jump in.

Meanwhile, Jason is wide-eyed and slack jawed as Duke continues eating like he didn’t just drop a nuke on their argument and put the entire family on edge.

“Dead as hell,” Duke continues as he cuts into his steak. “What kind of shoes you had on in your casket?”

Dick just about swallows his tongue. Bruce is, possibly for the first time since watching his parents die, shocked beyond words. Tim is shoving a napkin into his mouth the muffle nervous laughter. Damian looks downright scared.

Jason’s eyebrows are raised so high that they just about fuse with his hairline. “I don’t…Bruce, what kind of shoes did I have on in my casket?”

The older man opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. How the fuck is he supposed to answer that?

“Probably hard-bottoms,” Duke says, nonchalant as ever while he tries his mashed potatoes. “The Recently Deceased 1’s. Limited Ethiopia edition.”

“Sweet baby Jesus and the grown one too,” Dick croaks. “What the fuck, Duke?”

Bruce doesn’t immediately reprimand Dick for his language, which is how Damian knows this situation is too far gone. He begins muttering prayers for every religion Mother taught him about, since it’s clear they’re all about to meet their respective makers.

Jason’s face goes blank as he lays his fork down. Tim tenses, thinking the Red Hood’s about to make Sunday dinner a crime scene.

“That,” Jason says, face breaking into a grin, “is hilarious.” He slaps Duke’s arm playfully and the two break into breathless giggles. “Recently Deceased 1’s? Diabolical.”

“There’s something deeply wrong with you two,” Dick whispers.

“Hush up, circus boy,” Duke laughs.

“Exactly,” Jason cackles. “You weren’t even at my funeral. You don’t get to talk!”

Tim snorts, then goes still when the giggling duo turn their eyes on him. The three stare at each other for a moment before bursting into raucous laughter.

“Not circus boy,” Tim chuckles. He’s halfway out of his seat and leaning on Damian. “He really tried to check you!”

“But wasn’t there to check the funeral fit!” Duke pitches himself off his seat and right onto the floor. Jason’s red in the face from laughing so hard.

Damian coughs into his hand to hide his own giggles. Dick gives the boy a disapproving look, but that only makes the youngest Bat laugh louder. Instead of arguing, Dick settles on grinning down at his plate.

Bruce watches them all and wonders how soon he can book a family therapy session because, again, what the fuck?

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old polish* names are metal as fuck, cause they can literally mean something like "the destroyer of peace" (Kazimierz), "the rage has come"(Przybygniew), "the one that praises killing/murdering" (Morzysław), "the one that does not know peace" (Nieznamir), or, my personal favorite, "the one that avenges his comrades" (Mściwoj).

it gets even more badass - because the pre-christian slavic traditions and language were rather poorly documented, and throughout history, there have been attempts to erase the records, we can't actually know for sure what exactly some of them were supposed to mean, or how were they used. we're left with names that could belong to a demonic antagonist in a fantasy book, their sound harsh, their origin shrouded in mystery.

*many of those are names in other slavic languages, too, but i'm talking specifically old polish names because i am polish and that's the language i know the most about.

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Black History Month is coming and Duke Thomas is preparing to be a menace. He can get away with anything no matter the time of year, but February is when he gets to be ridiculous and nobody will call him on it.

“Your patrol report is late, Signal.”

“You want me to fill out the white man’s paperwork? In this holy month of melanin?”

Batman just blinks and turns back to the computer. “Understood, my apologies.”

Tim wants to choose what they’re ordering for dinner.

“It’s my turn to pick and I want Thai.”

Duke doesn’t even object to Thai, but this is his time to shine. Well, shine more than usual. “Why am I being subjected to the white man’s will?”

Tim nods and holds out his phone. “I apologize for my outburst, king.”

Duke orders Thai anyway.

Damian has an understanding of history akin to someone with advanced degrees in the subject, so he wants Duke to feel celebrated and honored every February. He’s also a gremlin and has Duke’s blessing to engage in some nonsense.

“I will not be participating in these…” Damian trails off and glances across the table at Duke, who gives him a thumbs up and an encouraging nod. “���these white man activities. They are oppressive and offensive to my ancestors.”

Dick and Jason exchange amused looks while Bruce’s face takes on a confused expression.

“You’re white,” the older man retorts. “Half, anyway. So half of your ancestors are the white man. And cleaning up after the dog you asked for isn’t exactly—“

“Sounds oppressive,” Jason interjects. “Not a good look, Bruce.”

“Not a good look,” Dick agrees.

Bruce sighs and leaves the table to clean up Ace’s mess in the foyer.

“Well done,” Duke laughs. “The ancestors will be pleased.”

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It makes me happy when they listen

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gosh but like we spent hundreds of years looking up at the stars and wondering “is there anybody out there” and hoping and guessing and imagining

because we as a species were so lonely and we wanted friends so bad, we wanted to meet other species and we wanted to talk to them and we wanted to learn from them and to stop being the only people in the universe

and we started realizing that things were maybe not going so good for us– we got scared that we were going to blow each other up, we got scared that we were going to break our planet permanently, we got scared that in a hundred years we were all going to be dead and gone and even if there were other people out there, we’d never get to meet them

and then

we built robots?

and we gave them names and we gave them brains made out of silicon and we pretended they were people and we told them hey you wanna go exploring, and of course they did, because we had made them in our own image

and maybe in a hundred years we won’t be around any more, maybe yeah the planet will be a mess and we’ll all be dead, and if other people come from the stars we won’t be around to meet them and say hi! how are you! we’re people, too! you’re not alone any more!, maybe we’ll be gone

but we built robots, who have beat-up hulls and metal brains, and who have names; and if the other people come and say, who were these people? what were they like?

the robots can say, when they made us, they called us discovery; they called us curiosity; they called us explorer; they called us spirit. they must have thought that was important.

and they told us to tell you hello.

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Joy Sullivan, from “Move to Oregon in July”, Instructions for Traveling West