why are the Jily fics where they find out they’re pregnant so fluffy and lovey and everyone is excited. Where is the ANGST?! This is a WAR people, and Harry was most definitely an accident, I need uncertainty and fear and ‘Oh no, how could we let this happen’ and ‘what should we do? WE CAN’T BRING A CHILD INTO THIS’ and James being too distracted by the knowledge on a mission and something awful happens and and and
You know what else we need? Lily Potter and Alice Longbottom leaning on each other for support because they both know what it is like to be pregnant during the war with husbands fighting.
Holy. Fucking. SHIT.
Sabrina Reid just put me on to a police dash cam video from South Carolina regarding an incident that occurred between Levar Jones and a state trooper on September 4, 2014.
The video shows a state trooper pulling up to a gas station as Jones gets out of his car.
The trooper yells for Jones to produce his license.
Jones bends into his car to get his license and the trooper opens fire and strikes the man.
Jones, in shock, backs away from the car WITH HIS HANDS IN THE AIR.
In a stunning act of inhumanity, THE TROOPER CONTINUES TO FIRE UPON JONES—WHO CLEARLY HAS HIS HANDS UP.
Jones falls to the ground and the fucking trooper yells “Get on the ground!”
The wounded Jones, already on the fucking ground, says to the trooper, “I was getting my license. You said ‘get [my] license.”
The trooper continues to treat Jones as though he were guilty of some heinous crime, talking to him as though he had already been tried, convicted, and sentenced.
He walks over to Jones and tells him to put his hands behind his back.
Jones asks, “What did I do??”
The trooper ignores him and continues to tell him to put his hands behind his back.
“Are you hit?” the trooper asks.
“I think so,” the confused Jones says. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“Why did you shoot me?” Jones asks.
“Well, you dove head first back into your car.”
NO HE DIDN’T. HE FOLLOWED YOUR ORDERS TO RETRIEVE HIS LICENSE.
“I was telling you to get out of your car,” the trooper said.
Yes, but he SHOT Jones at CLOSE RANGE even before Jones had the chance to COMPLY with the BRAND NEW ORDER the trooper gave to get out of the car. He literally FIRED ON JONES WHILE HE WAS TELLING HIM TO GET OUT OF THE CAR.
Look, I’m fucking tired.
I’m tired of marching.
I’m tired of praying.
I’m tired of talking.
I’m tired of singing spirituals.
This shit is exhausting man.
What the ever loving fuck.
Anonymous asked: please elaborate on how you got a substitute teacher to quit within one day. I'm genuinely curious.
all right everyone sit down, shut up and listen closely because I’m about to tell y’all the tale of Ms. Mormino.
Seventh grade is a time most people don’t look back on fondly. I know I sure don’t—I tend to regard that era as nothing more than an unpleasant, acne-filled haze of fall out boy and poor attempts at pseudo-zooey deschanel fashions. But enough about me. Let’s talk about my math teacher.
Ms. Isom. Poor old Ms. Isom. Well in her 60’s, always plagued with some illness or injury, she was hardly ever even at school. Since many of her absences were the result of short-notice incidents—“falling down the stairs” was popularly cited— it wasn’t all that uncommon to not have a substitute on hand. Being a smartass honors class, we’d gotten away with several successful evasions of administration, walking cavalierly into class to pass the next 48 minutes doing just about nothing. Hell, for good measure, we’d sometimes even toss in a friendly “hey, Ms. Isom!” if any administrators were anywhere within earshot. So incredibly anti-establishment, you could basically call it another Project Mayhem, except instead of Brad Pitt and Ed Norton concocting homemade bombs, it was a bunch of tweenyboppers with iPhone 3’s and Justin Bieber 2009 haircuts.
We got pretty accustomed to our own little self-governing system that rolled around every second period, so we naturally weren’t exactly thrilled when administration caught on to our little Anarchy Act and strictly enforced the presence of a substitute every day.
Most of our subs weren’t terrible—most were friendly, gave us participation grades, and didn’t object to the independent attitude of our class (which, mind you, only had about ten students in it)
That is, until Ms. Mormino came along.
Four feet, ten inches of raw, undiluted evil, Ms. Mormino walked into class with a scowl on her face and a chip on her shoulder. When the girl behind me sneezed, Ms. Mormino’s immediate response was “NO INAPPROPRIATE NOISES!”
Although we all suppressed our laughter, we all knew from that moment on that, try as she might with her despotism and her draconian anti-sneeze policy, Ms. Mormino didn’t stand a chance.
The arguable beginning of the end for Ms. Mormino’s all-too-brief reign of terror was the moment I asked for a calculator; mine was broken. Mormino asserted that I could only borrow a calculator if I loaned her something of mine; at that moment, the girl next to me chimed in, saying she, too, needed a calculator. “I have a folder I can give you,” I offered. “I have a highlighter,” added the other girl.
At that moment, a puberty-creaking voice from the back of the room piped up.
We all know certain people have certain gifts. Michelangelo saw angels in every block of marble and devoted his life to setting them free; Einstein had a mind which saw the potential of the entire universe; F. Scott Fitzgerald wove intricate tales of decadence and depravity. Max, however, had a different kind of gift: he could make anything—anything at all—into a “that’s what she said” joke. More on that later, though.
Max pried off a Nike sneaker and held it proudly in the air, like a coveted trophy.
"I have a shoe."
Tottering in one-shoe-one-sock, Max dumped the sneaker on Ms. Mormino’s desk, retrieved a calculator, then tottered back to his own desk, a sort of smirk playing on his face. And, as to be expected—the rest of us quickly followed suit.
A small pile of shoes on her desk, Ms. Mormino grit her teeth and glared at us as we all sat back down, quietly victorious, a calculator in each of our hands. It wasn’t long, however, until we all began to silently plot our next act of minor mayhem.
"Can I go to the bathroom?" asked Tyler, who, despite being in seventh grade, was approaching his sixteenth birthday. In a combination of verism and admiration of Tyler’s devil-may-care boldness, we unequivocally accepted him as our leader. For reasons unknown, Ms. Mormino denied his request. Tyler, much like his Fight Club namesake, heeded no rules but his own and left anyway—Ms. Mormino, furious, locked the door behind him and smugly insisted that "administration will take care of him."
Tyler, however, was not one to be caught, and stayed close by, appearing in the window of the door whenever Ms. Mormino wasn’t looking. Waving, smiling, laughing, making faces and obscene gestures, Tyler had us all in stitches, but cleverly avoided Ms. Mormino’s sight—when she asked us what was so funny, we all refused to give Tyler away.
A girl asked to go to the bathroom, stating she “really really really” needed to go. Ms. Mormino, again, denied her request. Ms. Mormino, however, seemed to be uninformed about the side door—leading right outside, always locked from the outside but always open from the inside.
"Well, I’ll go myself," the girl responded, and took off, hurdling three desks and darting out the door. Right behind her, two other students took off, pursuing freedom. The door slammed behind all three students, and they were gone.
Six of us were left. Among us, importantly, was Chris.
Chris was thirteen, but looked half his age; scrawny, wiry, he probably measured in at about four-foot-three, but no taller. “Late Bloomer” are words that come to mind.
Despite his diminutive size, Chris possessed the gall of someone like Tyler.
"I have to use the bathroom," said Chris, standing.
”Do you think I’m going to allow you to go to the bathroom?” snapped Ms. Mormino.
”It’s an emergency!” Chris pleaded.
"Sit down," Ms. Mormino growled.
Meanwhile, the entire class borders on hysteria. We have tears in our eyes, almost suffocating from choking back laughter.
"It’s an emergency," repeated Chris, but it sounded more like a warning.
Silence. Silence, Silence and more silence, until we all began to notice a dark stain on Chris’s khakis. The stain grew. And grew. And grew.
Fists at his sides, stoicism in his face, and a cold, proud, triumphant glint in his eye, Chris locked eye contact with Ms. Mormino.
And pissed right in his pants.
The entire class erupted into a laugh only comparable to the detonation of a bomb.
We laughed so hard for the next five, ten, fifteen minutes straight that Ms. Mormino gave up. Surrendering, putting her head on her desk, she waited until the hysteria finally subsided.
Finally looking up, defeated, pathetic, Ms. Mormino glared at us all and wailed:
”This is too much, this is too hard, too hard, Jesus Christ, this is too much for me!”
A lone voice sounded from the back of the room. Guess whose it was.
"That’s what she said."
Ms. Mormino officially retired from teaching that afternoon.
I DID THIS IM VERY PROUD OF IT YOU KNOW WHY
WAIT FOR IT
EOF THE RINGSBut every day’s likeGold ring, greybeard, trippin’ on the mushroomsBlood-mad Nazgul trashin’ the hotel roomWe don’t careWe got to Rivendell across the streamAnd everybody’s likeMountains, dwarf mines, presents from the Elf QueenRowboats, rock paths, Gollum on a rope leashWe don’t careYeah we’re simply gonna walk in there
Cuz we’re going to Moooooordor