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me, an intj: it seemed like a good idea at the time

Mbti victims

INFP: victim of depression

ESFJ: victim of society

ENFP: victim of always thinking that they are the victim

INTJ: victim of science

ENFJ: victim of revenge

ESTJ: victim of Fox News

ENTP: victim of CNN

ISTP: victim of their own minds

ISFP: victim of drugs

ENTJ: victim of wage slavery

INTP: victim of theft

INFJ: victim of emotional abuse

ISFJ: victim of the media

ISTJ: victim of a closed mind

ESFP: victim of the drama

ESTP: victim of addiction

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Texts From Superheroes

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The Tyranny of Taxis 🚕

Sonia loathed using taxis, and when finally finally agreed to hire one, she acted like a general who had ceded defeat to a conqueror. As they awaited the taxi that had been assigned by the the taxi-hire company, she kept up a running monologue while her companion, who had heard it all several times over, kept a lookout for their getaw.. I mean assigned taxi.

 "I hate how they all conspire to congregate at major population areas, and I tell you I have seen how they whisper in groups, sizing up the potential passengers and even negotiating the final fare before the passenger even gets in the taxi, with a buddy or three backing them up. And now here we are surrendering to the tyranny of taxis. My itinerary has failed!”, Sonia declared, with a tragic air of defeat.

“Taxi’s here. And we’re still following the itinerary. Just not by the planned mode of transport”, her companion pointed out kindly.

 "its a failure to plan" Sonia wailed as she was bundled into the taxi. long streaks of mascara trailed out of the corner of her almond shaped eyes as she continued plaintively, “and so the plan has failed and we are at the mercy of a taxi driver and”

 "and a comfortable ride back to our hotel, at slightly higher expense (which i will gladly cover thankyouverymuch) where we can rest after a while day of your exhausting itinerary of finding hidden bus stands, chasing busses, meeting train schedules, and winding our way from subway platform to distant exit." gently scolded Sonia's cinnam... i mean companion.

She fished out a wet-wipe and flapped it at Sonia "now shush. and wipe your face. you look like a pre-transformation zombie" 

 the taxi driver hid a smirk, overhearing the pair of passengers gripe in the backseat. he'd seen passengers exactly like this pair hundreds of times and was weighing whether to take the longer route just to soak up the companion's extra budget; instinct told him the Sonia would kick up a fuss on being scammed, but her companion would not mind terribly... 

"mr taxi driver, we are at your mercy, so please, if you would be so kind, do not excercise the natural tyrrany of taxi drivers to take the longer route to our destination" said the cinnamon-roll companion. the sharpness of her tone belied her words, and her speech derailed his train of thought. the taxi driver's eyes flicked up to meet her burning stare in the rear view mirror. 

the taxi driver gulped instinctively and nodded acquisience, choosing to be able to drive another day.

just then Sonia raised another wail, punching her companion's shoulder, "you think my itinerary is EXHAUSTING?! "

the taxi driver winced decided that the shorter route would indeed benefit all, and hastened their journey to the destination.

“That’s about right.” a small light flared from the backseat as Sonia’s companion continued, “between getting to that little shop in the middle of nowhere for breakfast, and finally finding the right train to the gardens, we have clocked… look… thirty thousand steps. I am exhausted, and going by your little temper tantrum here, so are you. Let’s all have a break. And “

“GPS recalculating” added a serious female voice, causing an awkward silence to descend upon the taxi.

“Er”,

“You see?! We should have asked for dir..”, Sonia started whining.

“I also see that we once were lost in a quiet area, and now are found in a vehicle driven by a person I THOUGHT was a PROFESSIONAL taxi driver who will still endeavour to send us to our destination without FURTHER incident”

“Well actually, I’m a writer and this is “

“The job you are doing right now, which you should focus on thankyouverymuch”, said the companion firmly.

“Turn right to Yipshorebund Ring Road in four hundred meters”

“But in those thirty thousand steps, we had a fantastic local feast. I saw your face you loved the food! And that’s where we found the hidden potter’s shop, and those lovely murals and remember the view of the mountains from the train"

“Graffiti not murals. And your cousin Kevin who commented on the photo of my face enjoying the food, thinks I ’have a stick up my butt’”, observed Sonia’s companion.

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by Georg Scharf

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You’ve entered a library to seek shelter from the rain, but it’s not a normal library. When you open a book, you see the history of an entire universe and all things in it. You have stumbled upon the Multiversal Archive.

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Scott Watanabe  -  http://scottwatanabe.tumblr.com  -  http://www.imdb.com/name/nm4078406  -  http://www.gallerynucleus.com/artist/scott_watanabe  -  http://www.cartoonbrew.com/artist-of-the-day/scott-watanabe-89025.html  -  https://www.linkedin.com/in/scott-watanabe-6b3b2715

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Maybe Foreign Language Wouldn’t Be So Foreign

Based off of this text post for @emettkaysworld + @bumblebeebats

Hermione: It baffles and infuriates me that Hogwarts students don’t take Latin or Greek.

Hermione: “Expelliarmus”?

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a Christmas movie I want to see

It’s very relaxed up at the North Pole ever since the top demands for toys changed from handcrafted to mass produced. Most of the elves are in “qualify control” these days (very important to check those video games for violence, y’know), and Santa and Mrs. Claus are basically reindeer farmers most of the year. 

Then, in late autumn, Santa checks his list. 

He checks it twice. 

He checks it a third time, and then he calls Mrs. Claus over to the computer, because clearly he’s messed something up and deleted something he shouldn’t have. Mrs. Claus waves him out of the chair, sits down, and starts checking the settings. 

She goes very, very still. 

Keep reading

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This is my cat, Brigitte.

24 hours after I brought her home, I got a mindblowing job offer.  Since I adopted her nine years ago, my life has become an amusement park.  She has brought me good luck ever since I took her into my home.

I’m telling you, there’s something about this animal.  Good fortune follows her everywhere.

I don’t want to be selfish.  I have everything I need and then some.  So, I’m sharing her with you.

Reblog Brigitte and you’ll receive fantastic news in the next 24 hours.

And when you do, please remember to help your local SPCA and support them in the difficult work they do for wonder animals like Brigitte.  Any donation helps your SPCA, even if it’s just five bucks.

Kitties like Brigitte are counting on you to give back when they bring you good luck.

Thanks, and congratulations on your good news!

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Everytime you draw Howls big stupid sleeves it makes me so happy, thank you for your excellent work <3

Aww! Thanks, Anon!

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Oxygen call out post by the most badass witch of Ingary. Get it together, air!!! goddamnit

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just wait until all the ao3 antis find out about

libraries

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6 zoo myths that arent true

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What if Harry Potter, the chosen one, had turned out to be a squib, how do you think history would have turned out differently?

It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE��� the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”  

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.  

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily…  strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

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If you commit a crime at the carnival, do you get a fair trial?

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In the Twilight universe, “vegetarian” vampires have golden eyes from drinking animal blood, a more ethical source than human blood, which would give them red eyes. It has also been established that a diet of human blood makes vampires physically stronger. So, if the Cullens wanted to become stronger without jeopardizing their morals, could they consume mosquitoes instead? How many mosquitoes would they have to eat to survive? Since mosquitoes drink from both humans and animals, what color would their eyes be? Orange? In this essay, I will