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This is where I post all of the nerdy things! Such as Superheros, Time Traveling Doctors, Residents of 221B Baker Street, Avengers, Guardians, 4077th Doctors, Hobbits and much much more....currently just kind of done with things :/
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I’m convinced in 30 years Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson will basically be Mr Incredible and Frozone
As a Canadian, I like to laugh at the ridiculousness of Canadian stereotypes. Then shit like this happens.
Love is Purple.
This is possibly the cutest little love comic I have ever seen.
reblogging again because this is so cute and a repost has more attention than the real post and thats really upsetting to me
peter capaldi is a blessing on this world
Oh god I was so worried about this too
The more he talks about this upcoming season and the stuff he won’t put up with, the more I’m starting to believe he killed Steven Moffat and keeps telling everyone he’s on vacation while writing all his episodes himself.
that is brilliant news what are you talking about
OH MY GOD. YOU ALL NEED TO WATCH THIS.
I DIDN’T EVEN SUSPECT THAT OR SEE THAT COMING OH MY FUCKING GOD
You need to see it.
I wasn’t ready for that I’m fucking rolling.
But how is it that there are people that liked Man of Steel? Just…how??
I enjoyed exactly one part of that movie, when Zod is getting his powers for the first time and Clark just goes, “it hurts doesn’t it?”
I want more of THAT Clark Kent.
Also he was kinda hot but that is besides the point.
This is the saddest fucking thing ever.
people think deadpool is just this wise-cracking jokester but he actually has the saddest fucking story of any comic book hero i know
I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d, And men were gather’d round their blazing homes To look once more into each other’s face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain’d; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d And twin’d themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour’d, Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer’d not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak’d up, And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before; The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
~Lord Byron, July 1816
"…My days, though few, have pass’d below In much of joy, but more of woe; Yet still, in hours of love or strife, I’ve ‘scaped the weariness of life: Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes I loathed the languor of repose. Now nothing left to love or hate, No more with hope or pride elate, I’d rather be the thing that crawls Most noxious o’er a dungeon’s walls, Than pass my dull, unvarying days, Condemn’d to meditate and gaze. Yet, lurks a wish within my breast For rest—but not to feel’t is rest. Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil; And I shall sleep without the dream Of what I was, and would be still, Dark as to thee my deeds may seem: My memory now is but the tomb Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom:Though better to have died with those, Than bear a life of lingering woes. My spirit shrunk not to sustain The searching throes of ceaseless pain; Nor sought the self-accorded grave Of ancient fool and modern knave: Yet death I have not fear’d to meet; And in the field it had been sweet, Had danger woo’d me on to move The slave of glory, not of love. I’ve braved it—not for honour’s boast; I smile at laurels won or lost; To such let others carve their way, For high renown, or hireling pay: But place again before my eyes Aught that I deem a worthy prize; The maid I love, the man I hate, And I will hunt the steps of fate To save or slay, as these require, Through rending steel, and rolling fire: Nor need’st thou doubt this speech from one Who would but do—what he hath done. Death is but what the haughty brave, The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; Then let life go to him who gave: I have not quail’d to danger’s brow When high and happy—need I now?…"
~Lord Byron The Giaour