I always say how bullied I am, but no one listens, what do I have to do so people will listen to me?
This is the last post of a gay, 14-year-old boy bullied to the point of suicide.
msdistress asked: Zomg! You're Moony! I love your Sherlock fanfics. *fangirls* (That was all, I have no questions, just had to say it. :)
Oh, that’s so sweet! Thank you. <3
andthatswhytheycallmebadcompany:
I’m a little saddened by the fact that this only has 1.7K notes while this has 59K.
Dude, ditto
Why is everyone on Tumblr so damn young?? Bunch of children, get off the internets.
*shakes my cane angrily* Young whipper-snappers! :D
let me at ‘em… wait… hang on… gotta get my walker first….
Once I put my teeth back in y’all are gonna get it…
Back in my day we didn’t HAVE…uh…something.
All this ‘back’ talk is making mine ache…. But when it feels better yall youngins are in for a fight.
Yes, wait while I go get in my car and drive 10 mph.
Ah, glad to know I’m not the only old coot on here!
GET OFF MY LAWN YA HOOLIGANS!
DON’T MAKE ME NERF YOU STUPID KIDS.
Someone make one of these for 30+ years old.
Ten Years Later: A Tribute 9/11
My favorite 9/11 tribute in New York City can be found in Bryant Park. 2,819 empty chairs on the lawn facing the site where the World Trade Center once stood, one chair for every life lost. The number of empty chairs captures the enormity of the lives lost and the stark emptiness of it just drives home the point that I hope is never forgotten. 2,819 people were here one moment and gone the next. 2,819 went to work or boarded a plane one morning ten years ago thinking it would be another ordinary day and they never came home.
Of all the tributes, this is the one that affects me most.
(via lairdmichael)
States with medical marijuana see a decrease in pot smoking by teens
When states debate medical marijuana laws, one of the issues sure to come up is whether legalizing marijuana for medical uses sends the wrong message to young people. Does legalizing medical marijuana create an atmosphere of permissiveness regarding marijuana? Does legalizing medical marijuana make it easier for kids to get their hands on dope?
Some of those questions are highly subjective and difficult to answer. One question, though stands out as being straightforward enough to actually study. That question is simply this: Are teenagers more likely to smoke marijuana after a state legalizes medical marijuana than they were before it was legalized in their state?
A study conducted by the Marijuana Policy Project in partnership with a psychology professor from the State University of New York has concluded that teen use of marijuana does not change much when a state legalizes marijuana. If anything, teenage use seems to go down.
In Colorado, the researchers noted that there is really isn’t enough data to reach hard conclusions, but the data they have shows that in 1999, 10.3 percent of 12-17-year-olds reported using marijuana within the month prior to the survey. In 2007-2008, 9.1 percent reported marijuana use in the same time frame. Colorado passed its medical marijuana law in 2000.
As of today, 16 states and the District of Columbia have passed medical marijuana laws. Of the 13 states studied, only two, Michigan and New Mexico, showed an increase in marijuana among teenagers after passage of the laws. As in Colorado, the change is small enough to be within the margin of error.
Nationwide, the study concluded that teenage marijuana use has gone down since California became the first state to legalize medical marijuana in 1996.
The study’s authors wrote that all of the data used in the study comes from surveys done by the federal government or the states themselves, so it is unlikely to be rigged by a pro-drug bias on the part of the surveyors.
Medical marijuana is all that stands between me and pain, nausea and discomfort due to rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia. I cannot understand why it’s perfectly legal for doctors to prescribe narcotic pain medication, which is infinitely more damaging and addictive than pot, but pot is somehow worse?
The only bright side of living in California, I tell you.
(via knitmeapony)
Inspired by the talk that the cane is a billiards cue
“Remember,” said Sherlock as they sat down. He’d chosen a snug near the bar, giving him a direct view of both the entrance and the hallway leading to the washrooms. “We’re here for surveillance. I need you to actually surveil.”
John rolled his eyes as he slid into the seat across from Sherlock. “Well, yes, of course,” he said. “But two blokes in a pub not drinking is a bit obvious, isn’t it? What’re you having?”
Sherlock shook his head. “None for me,” he said. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“You’re working in a pub,” said John. “You’re drinking. I’ll get something for you and you’ll like it.” He got up and went over to the bar, ignoring the daggers Sherlock glared into his back. When he returned he held two frothy pints of something dark and set one of them in front of Sherlock. “There we are.”
“What is this?” Sherlock frowned at the glass, poked a finger into the froth and licked at it. “Eurgh.”
“You’re joking.” John sat down and put his pint aside. “It’s Guinness. It’s good for you.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” said Sherlock. “It tastes horrid, and I’m going to assume the alcoholic content is extremely potent.”
John shook his head. “It’s not that strong,” he said. He studied his own glass. “Ah, look at the head on that. Brilliant. I haven’t had one of these since I went to Dublin with my mates from uni. Think I was, oh. Twenty? Twenty-one?”
Sherlock tried to imagine a younger John Watson and found he couldn’t. To him, John Watson was never small, never young. He was born exactly as he is now, older and wiser (though sometimes the wiser bit was questionable, particularly in the mornings when John smeared Marmite on everything). “I cannot drink this, John,” he said. “I need all of my faculties intact.”
John sighed. “Then pretend to drink it, and I’ll have it. The point is that you have to look like you belong here, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grunts. “I can do that,” he said, but as soon as he said it he looked around and realised he was a bit out of his depth. He loathed pubs personally, never understood the draw of a place that reeked of stale beer, that was too loud for conversation and full of people who never noticed anything beyond their mobiles, their televisions or the girl they’re trying to chat up. Seemed sodull to him.
But this was John’s sort of establishment. The jeans-and-jumper set, fresh from their dull jobs but not quite ready to go home to their dull lives, out for a night on the pull or with their mates. He knew John came here with people from the surgery, with Mike Stamford or that Murray fellow who commented on his blog. John had told him Murray’d saved his arse in the war. He wondered what they talked about here. He wondered about that side of John he’d yet to see, because it wasn’t as though they went down the pub together. This was the first time, for work of course, and Sherlock could notafford distraction while working - but in this case, he realised, he had to. This was John’s element. He might as well go along - and observe, while he had the chance.
He sighed. “All right,” he said, scowling at his glass. “Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions I will defer to your obviously superior knowledge.”
John blinked, then a slow grin spread across his features. “I wish I’d recorded that,” he said, picking up his pint. “I’d have it as my new ringtone.”
“Shut up and tell me what to do,” Sherlock snapped.
“Just a moment, let me savor this.” John took a long pull of his pint and set it back down again with a satisfied sigh. “Right. Well, we can sit here and drink - or, I can drink and you can glare at your drink - or…”
“Or?”
“Hang on, I’m thinking.” John looked around the pub. “Oh, there’s snooker.”
Sherlock stared. “Sorry, what?”
“Billiards. Over there. Come on.” John got up. “Bring your drink.”
They commandeered a table that afforded a slightly obstructed view of the front, a better view of the back. “We’ll have to pop out and check the loo now and then, but that’s not too bad,” said John. He put down his pint and picked up a cue. “Ever played, Sir Holmes?”
“Once,” said Sherlock, ignoring the jibe. “When I was at school. It’s mathematics, is all. No real challenge to it.”
“Hm.” John smirked at him. “Care to wager on that, then?”
Sherlock looked up and immediately wished he hadn’t. John had pushed up his sleeves and was practically caressing the cue, studying the tip, practicing empty shots on the table before bringing it up to rest on his shoulder. Sherlock’s first thought was that this is what John might look like with a sword, or a long-barrel gun, which filled his normally-cooperative brain with unhelpful imaginings of John-the-soldier. John-the-soldier in just fatigue trousers and vest, cradling an SA80 and he really needed to stop that line of thinking right now.
Instantly self-conscious, Sherlock took a drink of his pint without thinking. It was too big a mouthful but he choked it down and immediately began to cough. When he recovered he looked up, watery-eyed and red-faced, at John, who only smiled.
“So,” said John, stroking a hand up the length of the cue. “Best of three?”
Sweet Mother of God.
God, that smile with the Sherlock hair is freaking me out. The bottom left pic is totally making up for it, though. NNNNGH.
honestly? the bottom left pic is working for me because the cane could be mistaken for a billard cue.
and sherlock could be mistaken for someone john watson’s going to bugger over a billard table.Stop that, you. I have other shit to write. (Those tags, though…)
Suddenly, images in my head. *ded*
Best of 3. Winner gets to do the buggering.
Lets hope there are no miscues. o.0
“Remember,” said Sherlock as they sat down. He’d chosen a snug near the bar, giving him a direct view of both the entrance and the hallway leading to the washrooms. “We’re here for surveillance. I need you to actually surveil.”
John rolled his eyes as he slid into the seat across from Sherlock. “Well, yes, of course,” he said. “But two blokes in a pub not drinking is a bit obvious, isn’t it? What’re you having?”
Sherlock shook his head. “None for me,” he said. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“You’re working in a pub,” said John. “You’re drinking. I’ll get something for you and you’ll like it.” He got up and went over to the bar, ignoring the daggers Sherlock glared into his back. When he returned he held two frothy pints of something dark and set one of them in front of Sherlock. “There we are.”
“What is this?” Sherlock frowned at the glass, poked a finger into the froth and licked at it. “Eurgh.”
“You’re joking.” John sat down and put his pint aside. “It’s Guinness. It’s good for you.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” said Sherlock. “It tastes horrid, and I’m going to assume the alcoholic content is extremely potent.”
John shook his head. “It’s not that strong,” he said. He studied his own glass. “Ah, look at the head on that. Brilliant. I haven’t had one of these since I went to Dublin with my mates from uni. Think I was, oh. Twenty? Twenty-one?”
Sherlock tried to imagine a younger John Watson and found he couldn’t. To him, John Watson was never small, never young. He was born exactly as he is now, older and wiser (though sometimes the wiser bit was questionable, particularly in the mornings when John smeared Marmite on everything). “I cannot drink this, John,” he said. “I need all of my faculties intact.”
John sighed. “Then pretend to drink it, and I’ll have it. The point is that you have to look like you belong here, Sherlock.”
Sherlock grunts. “I can do that,” he said, but as soon as he said it he looked around and realised he was a bit out of his depth. He loathed pubs personally, never understood the draw of a place that reeked of stale beer, that was too loud for conversation and full of people who never noticed anything beyond their mobiles, their televisions or the girl they’re trying to chat up. Seemed so dull to him.
But this was John’s sort of establishment. The jeans-and-jumper set, fresh from their dull jobs but not quite ready to go home to their dull lives, out for a night on the pull or with their mates. He knew John came here with people from the surgery, with Mike Stamford or that Murray fellow who commented on his blog. John had told him Murray’d saved his arse in the war. He wondered what they talked about here. He wondered about that side of John he’d yet to see, because it wasn’t as though they went down the pub together. This was the first time, for work of course, and Sherlock could not afford distraction while working - but in this case, he realised, he had to. This was John’s element. He might as well go along - and observe, while he had the chance.
He sighed. “All right,” he said, scowling at his glass. “Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions I will defer to your obviously superior knowledge.”
John blinked, then a slow grin spread across his features. “I wish I’d recorded that,” he said, picking up his pint. “I’d have it as my new ringtone.”
“Shut up and tell me what to do,” Sherlock snapped.
“Just a moment, let me savor this.” John took a long pull of his pint and set it back down again with a satisfied sigh. “Right. Well, we can sit here and drink - or, I can drink and you can glare at your drink - or…”
“Or?”
“Hang on, I’m thinking.” John looked around the pub. “Oh, there’s snooker.”
Sherlock stared. “Sorry, what?”
“Billiards. Over there. Come on.” John got up. “Bring your drink.”
They commandeered a table that afforded a slightly obstructed view of the front, a better view of the back. “We’ll have to pop out and check the loo now and then, but that’s not too bad,” said John. He put down his pint and picked up a cue. “Ever played, Sir Holmes?”
“Once,” said Sherlock, ignoring the jibe. “When I was at school. It’s mathematics, is all. No real challenge to it.”
“Hm.” John smirked at him. “Care to wager on that, then?”
Sherlock looked up and immediately wished he hadn’t. John had pushed up his sleeves and was practically caressing the cue, studying the tip, practicing empty shots on the table before bringing it up to rest on his shoulder. Sherlock’s first thought was that this is what John might look like with a sword, or a long-barrel gun, which filled his normally-cooperative brain with unhelpful imaginings of John-the-soldier. John-the-soldier in just fatigue trousers and vest, cradling an SA80 and he really needed to stop that line of thinking right now.
Instantly self-conscious, Sherlock took a drink of his pint without thinking. It was too big a mouthful but he choked it down and immediately began to cough. When he recovered he looked up, watery-eyed and red-faced, at John, who only smiled.
“So,” said John, stroking a hand up the length of the cue. “Best of three?”
…
I DO NOT KNOW WHERE THIS CAME FROM I AM SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING DAMMIT
Happy Birthday, Martin Freeman
You make me look forward to turning 40.*
*in five years oh my god
