❝ There was a knock at the door.
“I say? Are you decent?” Lady Ramkin boomed cheerfully.
“I’ve brought you something jolly nourishing.”
Somehow Vimes imagined it would be soup. Instead it was a plate stacked high with bacon, fried potatoes and eggs. He He could hear his arteries panic just by looking at it. […]
“Er,” he began, not used to addressing ladies from a recumbent position in their own beds. […] Another stab of pain from his stricken side made him wince.
“You’ve got some very bad bruising and probably a cracked rib or two,” she said. “If you roll over I’ll put some more of this on.” Lady Ramkin flourished a jar of yellow ointment.
Panic crossed Vimes’s face. Instinctively, he raised the sheets up around his neck.
“Don’t play silly buggers, man,” she said. “I shan’t see anything I haven’t seen before. One backside is pretty much like another. It’s just that the ones I see generally have tails on. Now roll over and up with the nightshirt. It belonged to my grandfather, you know.”
There was no resisting that tone of voice. Vimes thought about demanding that Nobby be brought in as a chaperon, and then decided that would be even worse.
The cream burned like ice.
“What is it?”
“All kinds of stuff. It’ll reduce the bruising and promote the growth of healthy scale.”
“Sorry. Probably not scale. Don’t look so worried. I’m almost positive about that. Okay, all done.” She gave him a slap on the rump.
“Madam, I am Captain of the Night Watch,” said Vimes, knowing it was a bloody daft thing to say even as he said it.
“Half naked in a lady’s bed, too,” said Lady Ramkin, unmoved. “Now sit up and eat your tea. We’ve got to get you good and strong.”
Vimes’s eyes filled with panic.
“Why?” he said.
Lady Ramkin reached into the pocket of her grubby jacket.
“I made some notes last night,” she said. “About the dragon.”
“Oh, the dragon.” Vimes relaxed a bit. Right now the dragon seemed a much safer prospect.
— Captain Vimes convalescing at Lady Ramkin’s (Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett)
What am I even doing?!
It doesn’t matter if you’re pretty
or have things all over your face,
because what truly matters is
what’s inside you.
this is actually the most meaningful and thoughtful post i have ever seen on tumblr
me when i am mildly inconvenienced: thIS IS THE WORST THING THAT'S EVER HAPPENED TO ME
me when i am legitimately hurt/distressed: no no it's fine i've had worse
This is too raw
Whoever makes these is not even in the general area of fucking around
These are actually quite true in everyday possible to me.
Here, have some book quotes about James and Lily because I don’t know where some of you are getting your characterizations from.
Post-It Notes from a Stay-At-Home Dad.
These were all very entertaining :P
I love how he calls his wife “permanent roommate”
at least my coworker is hot
Oh god thank fucking christ.
I usually don’t reblog these, but I feel like some of my followers could probably use the reassurance. I definitely have these kinds of thoughts sometimes.
so i’m not crazy for randomly thinking such thoughts? what a relief!
Edgar Allan Poe had a name for it too: The Imp of the Perverse. he compared the impulses to a demon that urges people to do the wrong thing simply because it can be done
The compulsion to jump from high places is called “l’appel du vide" in French. The call of the void. I think it’s specific to that one instance, but I think it’s a cool phrase for this phenomenon in general.
I think about this with random sharp objects laying around, too. “What if I just jammed this into my eye or throat right now? … oh god WHAT.” Just… fucking christ, brain. Don’t.
Reblogging this again because most people don’t/never know how normal these thoughts are, and that can be a major source of stress. It’s okay. You’re okay. Just, you know, don’t follow through on that shit.
Look, if you nicely tell me that swearing makes you uncomfortable and you politely ask me not to, I will stop immediately and speak nicer than a nun.
But if you start acting like you’re on some fucking high horse, or telling me that I’m going to Hell for talking the way that I do and you can’t “be around that kind of language” then you can bet your motherfuckin’ ass that I’ll be fucking cussing like a cunt-fuckin’ sailor you maggot-ridden piece of dick.
You know what hurts a lot?
Lets just assume that this is Rue’s father:
Because he jump-started the uprising, I think we can guess that he was killed on the spot.
In Catching Fire, during the District 11 scene, you see Rue’s family. and guess who’s not there?