my life is pretty much amazing. This blog is just my place to rant or celebrate or post random crap.

31st August 2014

Photoset reblogged from You'll Never Know if You Never Try. with 240,240 notes

yosuke-rolling-in-a-trash-can:

rainamermaid:

memewhore:

sean3116:

sixpenceee:

As someone who wants to study the human consciousness I found this very interesting.

Scott Routley was a “vegetable”. A car accident seriously injured both sides of his brain, and for 12 years, he was completely unresponsive.

Unable to speak or track people with his eyes, it seemed that Routley was unaware of his surroundings, and doctors assumed he was lost in limbo. They were wrong.

In 2012, Professor Adrian Owen decided to run tests on comatose patients like Scott Routley. Curious if some “vegetables” were actually conscious, Owen put Routley in an fMRI and told him to imagine walking through his home. Suddenly, the brain scan showed activity. Routley not only heard Owen, he was responding.

Next, the two worked out a code. Owen asked a series of “yes or no” questions, and if the answer was “yes,” Routley thought about walking around his house. If the answer was “no,” Routley thought about playing tennis.

These different actions showed activity different parts of the brain. Owen started off with easy questions like, “Is the sky blue?” However, they changed medical science when Owen asked, “Are you in pain?” and Routley answered, “No.” It was the first time a comatose patient with serious brain damage had let doctors know about his condition.

While Scott Routley is still trapped in his body, he finally has a way to reach out to the people around him. This finding has huge implications.

SOURCE

HOLY STEAMING SHITFUCKS

WHY IS EVERYONE NOT LOSING THEIR SHIT ABOUT THIS

What a fucking nightmare, just kill me.

I know a girl who was hit by a drunk driver and in that state for a year. When she woke up the first thing she did was tell off the doctor who tried to convince her mom to pull the plug. She heard *everything* while being called brain dead.

OH MY FUCK

Source: sixpenceee

31st August 2014

Photo reblogged from Viva La Pluto with 67,313 notes

To my capital S Something.

To my capital S Something.

Source: letspaintourteethgreen

31st August 2014

Chat reblogged from i'm not original. with 255,888 notes

  • her: come over
  • me: I can't my dog just fell asleep on my lap
  • her: my parents aren't home
  • me: he is ASLEEP

Source: dogapult

31st August 2014

Post reblogged from Pop Culture Reference with 388,514 notes

500daysof-katie:

tea-inthetardis:

bugsinricepudding:

i’m looking for a romantic way to say i hope you think about me when you masturbate sometimes

In the deepest, calmest hours of the night when you have naught but your own company, I hope my image fills you with bliss.

ed sheeran when did you get a tumblr 

Source: nicoledollanganger

30th August 2014

Post reblogged from spin your heart out with 64,480 notes

luvlyhuman:

i wanna KISS YOU and you’re NOT HERE

Source: luvlyhuman

30th August 2014

Photo reblogged from It's A Guard Life! with 56,613 notes

amarilloo:

kurookami:

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure –
But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.
Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.
Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.
Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured – by their classmates –for having been born.
Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle – but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)
Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.
Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again – the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone – the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?
Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.
Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.
Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes – in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.
Imagine the ghosts.
Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield – it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)
Imagine the students unable to trust each other – everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.
Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.
Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.
Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.
Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.
Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.
Imagine the students who leave the wixen world – hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.
Imagine the students who never use magic again.
(Image source.)
(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

This kills the man

amarilloo:

kurookami:

ppyajunebug:

thelethifoldwitch:

Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
lavenderpatil
because everyone should read it

This kills the man

Source: thelethifoldwitch

29th August 2014

Photo reblogged from love with 1,056 notes

Can’t wait til Sunday. :)

Can’t wait til Sunday. :)

Source: thelovenotebook

29th August 2014

Photoset reblogged from ☾♡☾♡☾♡☾ with 277,203 notes

Source: realitytvgifs

29th August 2014

Photo reblogged from Spank The Slave with 946,856 notes

swiggityswagjeansafag:

shitshilarious:

iliveinmattsmithspants:

territorialcreep:

itseasytoremember:

whythefuckareyouromeo:


0ver-doze:

omg they are so offended if you lick them back. 

Fun fact! Dogs lick the mouths of those they consider higher in rank! So if you lick them back, they are not offended, they just don’t see themselves as higher than you and they are confused! The second dog must be a very loyal dog because he or she literally refuses to be licked back haha! I love dogs.

i started reading that expecting an angry rant and it turned out to be one of the nicest things ever.

I have reblogged this like ten times

My cat grooms me. What does that mean?

It means your cat thinks your style is wack and is trying to help

two kinds of peeps

swiggityswagjeansafag:

shitshilarious:

iliveinmattsmithspants:

territorialcreep:

itseasytoremember:

whythefuckareyouromeo:


0ver-doze
:

image

omg they are so offended if you lick them back. 

Fun fact! Dogs lick the mouths of those they consider higher in rank! So if you lick them back, they are not offended, they just don’t see themselves as higher than you and they are confused! The second dog must be a very loyal dog because he or she literally refuses to be licked back haha! I love dogs.

i started reading that expecting an angry rant and it turned out to be one of the nicest things ever.

I have reblogged this like ten times

My cat grooms me. What does that mean?

It means your cat thinks your style is wack and is trying to help

two kinds of peeps

Source: kingjrific

29th August 2014

Post reblogged from There's A Daisy On My Toe with 307,823 notes

When We Cuddle,

kinda-gay-things:

I hope you don’t mind if I

  • wrap my legs around yours
  • lay my head above your heart
  • run my hands through your hair
  • play footsie with you
  • put my hand on your tummy
  • play with your hands
  • give you fishy kisses
  • talk about my day
  • sing you a song
  • fall asleep in your arms

I will legit do all these things

Source: mgnxmskt