June 2013
“When I see on Twitter that someone with an egg avatar and two followers has gotten a writer I know to spend ages arguing back and forth about nothing, there is part of me that thinks, “Why bother? The world is full of awfulness; you will never beat back all of it.” We all ignore things all day long; if we didn’t, we’d never get anything done.”
—Linda Holmes in “Bait And Twitch: Vice Magazine, Suicide Glamour, And Not Staying Quiet” (via npr)
My favorite thing is when people go “i wonder if this will ever be addressed” or ”this had better become significant in season nine” in tags on Supernatural posts about unresolved stuff, because it lets me know you are all my people, but come on guys. Come on.
We all know the score here.
No and it won’t be and we’re all still going to watch anyway but thank god for fanfic.
In Which We go on Holiday Before Arriving in Philadelphia
ravingsofanundiscoveredgenius:
What’s this? Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn starring in a George Cukor film adapted from a stage play by Philip Barry that pokes fun at the hollowness and shallowness of the American upper class under the guise of a love triangle romantic comedy? Why we must be watching The Philadelphia Story!
Except we’re not, well maybe you are, but I’m not. No, today I’m talking about 1938’s Holiday a sort of warm up act to Philadelphia Story released two years earlier by Columbia Pictures.
Seriously thinking about leaving my banking institution of many, many years and switching my checking to PNC. Anyone have any particularly bad experiences that might change my mind?
By the way, to follow up on the last time I asked for recs, nylons from the Assets line (I believe the brand is Spanx) have been working out for me much better than my old mishmash of cheapies.
I’m putting words in your mouth, but don’t accept them [just] because I put them there.
- Justice Stephen Breyer, to counsel during oral argument in Arizona vs. Inter Tribal Council of Arizona, Inc. [x]
“There are so many people in the world, and I want to know them all but I don’t even know my next door neighbor’s name.”
—Jon McGregor, If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things
Because my girlfriend won't let me buy her a gift for her birthday (insists on charity donations instead), and because she cares more about getting me to write than whether it's finished
(post-Sacrifice)
It took three months to find Castiel.
He’d been admitted to a St Louis hospital, another John Doe. The doctor said 5 days ago he intervened in an armed robbery, got shot in the abdomen for his troubles. The tranfusion had helped, but he wasn’t recovering as expected. She was concerned about his will to live.
“Are you close with your brother?” Dr. North had asked him.
//
Dean stood over Castiel’s hospital bed. He’d snuck into the ward; it was late, and visiting hours were long over.
“Cas, can you hear me?
“I need you, Cas. Remember? If you ever thought I deserved to be saved, you selfish sonofabitch, you gotta stick around and save me.
“I don’t care if you can smite demons, or zap me back in time, or carve a freakin’ sigil in your chest. I need you because you help me get through. I need your goddamn gravelly voice to tell me when I’m being an idiot. I need you to watch bad TV, and invade my personal space, and – and squint at me when you can’t figure something out. I just need you to be around.”
“I don’t need you to feel the same way. I just need you to care enough to not—“ Dean’s voice broke, and he tried again.
“Don’t give up, Cas.”
