Just a City Boy

penandpage:

casually-butts:

Tumblr is like a really big blue room and people walk around in white shirts covered in sticky notes and whenever you reblog something you’re just taking one of their stickynotes and slapping it on your tit and then walking back over to your friends like guys look at this

#this is the most accurate description of us i have ever heard #this is literally how i’m going to describe tumblr to people who aren’t from around these parts #for the rest of my life

(Source: corgle, via king-of-vagabonds)

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zillyh00:

dave’s collection of awful selfies

(via king-of-vagabonds)

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marfmellow:

The first thing you really need to understand is that the definition of racism that you probably have (which is the colloquial definition: “racism is prejudice against someone based on their skin color or ethnicity”) is NOT the definition that’s commonly used in anti-racist circles.The definition used in anti-racist circles is the accepted sociological definition (which is commonly used in academic research, and has been used for more than a decade now): “racism is prejudice plus power”. What this means, in easy language:A. Anyone can hold “racial prejudice” — that is, they can carry positive or negative stereotypes of others based on racial characteristics. For example, a white person thinking all Asians are smart, or all black people are criminals; or a Chinese person thinking Japanese people are untrustworthy; or what-have-you. ANYONE, of any race, can have racial prejudices.
B. People of any race can commit acts of violence, mistreatment, ostracizing, etc., based on their racial prejudices. A black kid can beat up a white kid because he doesn’t like white kids. An Indian person can refuse to associate with Asians. Whatever, you get the idea.C. However, to be racist (rather than simply prejudiced) requires havinginstitutional power. In North America, white people have the institutional power. In large part we head the corporations; we make up the largest proportion of lawmakers and judges; we have the money; we make the decisions. In short, we control the systems that matter. “White” is presented as normal, the default. Because we have institutional power, when we think differently about people based on their race or act on our racial prejudices, we are being racist. Only white people can be racist, because only white people have institutional power.
D. People of color can be prejudiced, but they cannot be racist, because they don’t have the institutional power. (However, some people refer to intra-PoC prejudice as “lateral racism”. You may also hear the term “colorism”, which refers to lighter-skinned PoC being prejudiced toward darker-skinned PoC.) However, that situation can be different in other countries; for example, a Japanese person in Japan can be racist against others, because the Japanese have the institutional power there. But in North America, Japanese peoplecan’t be racist because they don’t hold the institutional power.E. If you’re in an area of your city/state/province that is predominantly populated by PoC and, as a white person, you get harassed because of your skin color, it’s still not racism, even though you’re in a PoC-dominated area. The fact is, even though they’re the majority population in that area, they still lack the institutional power. They don’t have their own special PoC-dominated police force for that area. They don’t have their own special PoC-dominated courts in that area. The state/province and national media are still not dominated by PoC. Even though they have a large population in that particular area, they still lack the institutional power overall.F. So that’s the definition of racism that you’re likely to encounter. If you start talking about “reverse racism” you’re going to either get insulted or laughed at, because it isn’t possible under that definition; PoC don’t have the power in North America, so by definition, they can’t be racist. Crying “reverse racism!” is like waving a Clueless White Person Badge around.

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geronimoallonsy:

maddiefelldowntherabbithole:

im-thequeen-of-okay:

yellowcrayon:

consultant-ninja-from-gallifrey:

watercolor-expectations:

laceandlaudanum:

fallingdownsyndrome:

one-to-tennant:

lazoey:

#I imagine that every year on her birthday, Jack shows up at Donna’s door, announcing himself as a hug-o-gram sent by a mysterious admirer

That tag wins all the awards, in the history of ever.

#Jack totally keeps an eye out on all the Doctor’s companions throughout space and time #Uses Torchwood to keep tabs on everyone #even the ones he didn’t travel with #so he knows exactly when Sarah Jane needs flowers from a secret admirer most #Or where to send an anonymous gift for Donna’s wedding #Gives little Amelia the supplies to make her Raggedy Doctor dolls #He’s practically running a support group for former companions of the Doctor #They just don’t realize it.

headcanon accepted

HEADCANON ACCEPTED.

HEADCANON ACCENPTED

HEADCANON FUCKING ACCEPTED.

HEADCANON COMPLETELY ACCEPTED.

forever reblog

(Source: flapperorslapper, via king-of-vagabonds)

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mmmcookies22:

punziepond:

kittykittydontpanic:

bougiegal:

just a reminder than tumblr gets face characters fired and if you keep going in this direction with the new Peter Pan face character you are all so suddenly obsessed with you’re going to make him lose his job

can you explain how that happens?

people find out his real name and call him that at the park, therefore taking him out of character and ruining the magic for the younger kids

SIGNAL BOOSTING THIS SHIT

(via king-of-vagabonds)

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homestuckresources:

Anonymous asked homestuckresources:

make both of the “is there a good chance of us finding the burger king” ask and the “i found the burger king” ask rebloggble together

yeah i think this deserves to be rebloggable tbh holy fucking shit

(via aranea-serket)

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(Source: intentandoseringeniero, via statitik)

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17yroldghost:

a-beard:

fuckyeahassortedstuff:

roshi-no-tabi:

rosycrystals:

smileprettybaby:

Fun Fact: None of the actors but Gene Wilder knew that the tunnel scene was coming. Like, they had the lines and stuff, but they thought it was just a boat ride. And when the lights came on and he started singing their terror was real

This happened a lot throughout the movie. Which is one of the reasons it’s such a great film. The directors did the same thing when they all saw the inside of the Factory for the first time. They wanted to show the face of pure imagination. To capture it all.

That man is amazing.

Same thing with the scene where he comes out of the factory to greet them. None of them had gotten to meet Gene beforehand, so when he came out all hobbled on the cane and they had these confused looks on their faces and look actually concerned when he starts to tumble forward? That’s all legit. This whole movie was successful because it fucked with everyone who wasn’t Gene Wilder.

You guys know the sad Charlie reaction pic I use so much? That’s another ad lib scene. In rehearsals, gene was a lot calmer, but when they were actually filming he exploded on Peter ostrum (Charlie). That sad expression is genuine. And tht’s what it’s basically my favorite reaction picture ever.

The reason he came out limping and then rolled forward was so that from that point forward nobody could tell if he was lying or telling the truth.

literally none of this movie was scripted they just found a group of people and had them improvise an entire movie as cameras were rolling gene wilder doesn’t even exist you’re still dreaming

(Source: ikickath, via king-of-vagabonds)

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funnywildlife:

Krikey! A species of lizard in #Australia is currently evolving from laying eggs to live birth.

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nochancemartian:

toukos:

what if u walked into class and the substitute teacher was ur icon

(via king-of-vagabonds)

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unluckycharmxo:

stingraye:

maybe i’m still single because i didn’t forward that chain email to 17 of my closest friends 5 years ago

that’ll explain the little girl with no eyes at the end of my bed too

(via thisisgenstumblr)

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lemonexplosions:

jsantagato:

what a fucking joke.

Everything about the college system is wrong

(Source: awkwardsituationist, via king-of-vagabonds)

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cassicucumber:

ijustwantedadragonageurl:

perfectedflaw:

butthole-spaghetti:

gracie-geek:

crazeace:

fuzzlesan:

fuckyeahspookyshit:

Last year, I spent six months participating in what I was told was a psychological experiment. I found an ad in my local paper looking for imaginative people looking to make good money, and since it was the only ad that week that I was remotely qualified for, I gave them a call and we arranged an interview.
They told me that all I would have to do is stay in a room, alone, with sensors attached to my head to read my brain activity, and while I was there I would visualize a double of myself. They called it my “tulpa.”
It seemed easy enough, and I agreed to do it as soon as they told me how much I would be paid. The next day, I began. They brought me to a simple room and gave me a bed, then attached sensors to my head and hooked them into a little black box on the table beside me. They talked me through the process of visualizing my double again, and explained that if I got bored or restless, instead of moving around, I should visualize my double moving around, or try to interact with him, and so on. The idea was to keep him with me the entire time I was in the room.
I had trouble with it for the first few days. It was more controlled than any sort of daydreaming I’d done before. I’d imagine my double for a few minutes, then grow distracted. By the fourth day, however, I could manage to keep him “present” for the entire six hours. They told me I was doing very well.
The second week, they gave me a different room with wall-mounted speakers. They told me they wanted to see if I could still keep the tulpa with me in spite of distracting stimuli. The music was discordant, ugly, unsettling, and it made the process a little more difficult, but I managed nonetheless. The next week, they played even more unsettling music, punctuated with shrieks, feedback loops, what sounded like an old school modem dialing up and guttural voices speaking some foreign language. I just laughed it off; I was a pro by then.
After about a month, I started to get bored. To liven things up, I started interacting with my doppelganger. we’d have conversations, play rock-paper-scissors, I’d imagine him juggling or break dancing, or whatever caught my fancy. I asked the researchers if my foolishness would adversely affect their study, but they encouraged me.
So, we played and communicated, and that was fun for a while…and then it got a little strange. I was telling him about my first date one day and he corrected me. I’d said my date was wearing a yellow top, and he told me it was a green one. I thought about it for a second and realized he was right. It creeped me out, and after my shift that day I talked to the researchers about it. “You’re using the thought-form to access your subconscious,” they explained. “You knew on some level that you were wrong, and you subconscious corrected yourself.”
What had been creepy was suddenly cool. I was talking to my subconscious! It took some practice, but I found that I could question my tulpa and access all sorts of memories. I could make it quote whole pages of books I’d read once, years before, or things I was taught and immediately forgot in high school. It was awesome.
That was around the time I started “calling up” my double outside of the research center. Not often, at first, but I was so used to imagining him by now that it almost seemed odd not to see him. So, whenever I was bored, I’d visualize my double. Eventually, I started doing it almost all the time. It was amusing to take him along like an invisible friend. I imagined him when I was hanging out with friends, or visiting my mom; I even brought him along on a date once. I didn’t need to speak aloud to him, so I was able to carry out conversations with him and no one was the wiser.
I know that sounds strange, but it was fun. Not only was he a walking repository of everything I knew and everything I had forgotten, he also seemed more in touch with me than I did at times. He had an uncanny grasp of the minutiae of body language that I didn’t even realize I was picking up on. For example, I thought the date I brought him along on was going badly, but he pointed out how she was laughing a little too hard at my jokes and leaning towards me as I spoke, and a bunch of other subtle clues I wasn’t consciously picking up on. I listened and let’s just say that the date went very well.
By the time I’d been at the research center for four months he was with me constantly. The researchers approached me one day after my shift and asked me if I’d stopped visualizing him. I denied it and they seemed pleased. I silently asked my double if he knew what prompted that, but he just shrugged it off. So did I.
I withdrew a little from the world at that point. I was having trouble relating to people. It seemed to me that they were so confused and unsure of themselves, while I had a manifestation of myself to confer with. It made socializing awkward. Nobody else seemed aware of the reasons behind their actions, why some things made them mad and others made them laugh. They didn’t know what moved them…but I did, or at least I could ask myself and get an answer
A friend confronted me one evening. He pounded at the door until I answered it and came in fuming and swearing up a storm. “You haven’t answered when I called you in fucking weeks, you dick!” he yelled. “What’s your fucking problem?”
I was about to apologize to him and probably would have offered to hit the bars with him that night, but my tulpa grew suddenly furious. “Hit him,” it said, and before I knew what I was doing, I had. I heard his nose break. He fell to the floor and came up swinging, and we beat each other up and down my apartment. I was more furious than I have ever been, and I was not merciful. I knocked him to the ground and gave him two savage kicks to the ribs, and that was when he fled, hunched over and sobbing.
The police were by a few minutes later, but I told them that he had been the instigator and since he wasn’t around to refute me, they let me off with a warning. My tulpa was grinning the entire time. We spent the night crowing about my victory and sneering over how badly I’d beaten my friend.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was checking out my black eye and cut lip in the mirror, that I remembered what had set me o ff. My double was the one who’d grown furious, not me. I’d been feeling guilty and a little ashamed, but he’d goaded me into a vicious fight with a concerned friend. He was present, of course, and knew my thoughts. “You don’t need him any more. You don’t need anyone else,” he told me; I felt my skin crawl.
I explained all this to the researchers who employed me, but they just laughed it off. “You can’t be scared of something that you’re imagining,” one told me. My double stood beside him and nodded his head, then smirked at me.
I tried to take their words to heart, but over the next few days I found myself growing more and more anxious around my tulpa, and it seemed that he was changing. He looked taller and more menacing. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and I saw malice in his constant smile. No job was worth losing my mind over, I decided. If he was out of control, I’d put him down. I was so used to him at that point that visualizing him was an automatic process, so I started trying my damnedest to not visualize him. It took a few days, but it started to work somewhat. I could get rid of him for hours at a time, but every time he came back, he seemed worse. His skin seemed ashen, his teeth more pointed. He hissed and gibbered and threatened and swore. The discordant music I’d been listening to for months seemed to accompany him everywhere. Even when I was at home; I’d relax and slip up, no longer concentrating on no seeing him, and there he’d be, and that howling noise with him.
I was still visiting the research center and spending my next six hours there. I needed the money, and I thought they weren’t away that I was now not actively visualizing my tulpa. I was wrong. After my shift one day, about five and a half months in, two impressive men grabbed me and restrained me, and someone in a lab coat jabbed a hypodermic needle into me.
I woke up from my stupor back in the room, strapped into the bed, music blaring, with my doppelganger standing over me, cackling. He hardly looked human any more. His features were twisted. His eyes were sunken in their sockets and filmed over like a corpse’s. He was much taller than me, but hunched over. His hands were twisted, and his fingernails were like talons. He was, in short, fucking terrifying. I tried to will him away, but I couldn’t seem to concentrate. He giggled and tapped the IV in my arm. I thrashed in my restraints as best I could, but could hardly move at all.
“They’re pumping you full of the good shit, I think. How’s the mind? All fuzzy?” He leaned closer and closer as he spoke. I gagged; his breath smelled like spoiled meat. I tried to focus, but I couldn’t banish him.
The next few weeks were terrible. Every so often, someone in a doctor’s coat would come in and inject me with something or force-feed me a pill. They kept me dizzy and unfocused, and sometimes left me hallucinating or delusional. My thought-form was still present, constantly mocking. He interacted with, or perhaps caused, my delusions. I hallucinated that my mother was there, scolding me, and then he cut her throat and her blood showered me. It was so real that I could taste it.
The doctors never spoke to me. I begged at times, screamed, hurled invectives, demanded answers. They never spoke to me. They may have talked to my tulpa, my personal monster. I’m not sure. I was so doped and confused that it may have just been more delusion, but I remember them talking with him. I grew convinced that he was the real one and that I was the thought-form. He encouraged that line of thought at times, but mocked me at others.‘Another thing that I pray was a delusion: he could touch me. More than that, he could hurt me. He’d poke and prod at me if he felt I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Once, he grabbed my testicles and squeezed until I told him I loved him. Another time, he slashed my forearm with one of his talons. I still have a scar; most days I can convince myself that I injured myself, and just hallucinated that he was responsible. Most days.
Then, one day, while he was telling me a story about how he was going to gut everyone I loved, starting with my sister, he paused. A querulous look crossed his face, and he reached out and touched my head. Like mother used to when I was feverish. He stayed still for a long moment and then smiled. “All thoughts are creative,” he told me, then he walked out the door.
Three hours later, I was given an injection and passed out. I awoke unrestrained. Shaking, I made my way to the door and found it unlocked I walked out into the empty hallway and then ran. I stumbled more than once, but I made it down the stairs and out into the lot behind the building. There, I collapsed, weeping like a child. I knew I had to keep moving, but I couldn’t manage it.
I got home eventually; I don’t remember how. I locked the door and shoved a dresser against it, took a long shower, and slept for a day and a half. Nobody came for me in the night, and nobody came the next day or the one after that. I twas over. I’d spent a week locked in that room, but it had felt like a century. I’d withdrawn so much from my life beforehand that nobody had even known I was missing.
The police didn’t find anything. The research center was empty when they searched it. The paper trail fell apart. The names I’d given them were aliases. Even the money I’d received was apparently untraceable.
I recovered as much as one can. I don’t leave the house much, and I have panic attacks when I do. I cry a lot. I don’t sleep much, and my nightmares are terrible. It’s over, I tell myself. I survived. I used the concentration those bastards taught me to convince myself. It works, sometimes.
Not today, though. Three days ago, I got a phone call from my mother. There’s been a tragedy. My sister’s the latest victim in a spree of killings, the police say. The perpetrator mugs his victims, then guts them.
The funeral was this afternoon. It was as lovely a service as a funeral can be, I suppose. I was a little distracted, though. All I could hear was music coming from somewhere distant. It was discordant, unsettling stuff that sounds like feedback, shrieking, and a modem dialing up. I hear it still – a little louder now.

Oh my god…
…I…
…I’m generally not into creepypastas but holy shit…

………

Holy shit what the hell did I just read

the scary part is that this is an actual thing. you can actually have a tulpa. it is a theory that slenderman among other myths are tulpas or thoughtforms (something created by collective thoughts of one or more individuals).it’s so terrifying to think of what your mind can create.

Holy tits…

WHY IS THIS BACK

liTERALLY HORRIFIED JESUS CHRIST

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reblog if you recognize the lyrics to this inspirational song:

ninalacognata:

ijustwanttohugdavidtennant:

dundundundun
dundundundun
dundundundun
dundundundun, de-

dundundundun
dundundundun
dundundundunDOOOOOWEEEEOOOOOOOOO
WEEEOOOOO-OOOOOOOOO

DOOO-DOO-DOOO-DOO
DOOOOOOOO-DE-DOOOOOOOO

IT’S THE SONG OF MY PEOPLE!!

(Source: geekerypokery, via king-of-vagabonds)

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