starbashir:

the way garak begs for tain to call him son, when tain says he shouldve killed his mother before he was born and the way garaks voice wavers when he says “as you have told me”

.. im not okay fellas

inthetags:

If you’re a writer, reblog and put in the tags where you usually write you stories and keep your drafts (pen drive, art journals/sketchbooks, tumblr drafts, google drive, phone notes etc) 

thefirstpaleontologist:

sandersstudies:

physticuffs:

anexperimentallife:

when i was three, i told my parents that my preschool classmate Molly had a new baby sister who was Chinese. my parents tried to explain to me that Molly’s baby sister was Chinese because Molly’s parents were Chinese and Molly was, in fact, herself Chinese. i simply was not having any of it. Molly’s baby sister might be Chinese and Molly’s parents might even be Chinese (i couldn’t tell because it’s not like i ever looked at adults’ faces back then) but it didn’t make sense for MOLLY to be Chinese because, like me, Molly was THREE.

A family friend’s kid came home from school when she was still pretty small and told her mom there was a new kid at school who was “brown” and her mom is literally an Indian immigrant and she was like “honey you also are brown” and her kid was like “????????? no?” 

So sometimes small children do not know how appearances work. (Or, like the story above, race either)

petermorwood:

tiger-in-the-flightdeck:

domina-honoribila:

thewildyonder:

For the curious, this chap is processing flax, then spinning it into cordage, then twisting those cords into rope.

Spinning it finer, and you get flax thread, to turn into linen cloth.

I grew up in Northern Ireland, school lessons never missed a chance to mention Irish linen, my Dad was Head of Accounts at what was once the largest linen-thread mill In The World and I even worked there myself over a couple of summers.

Linen is impressive stuff, can be woven tight enough to hold water or fine enough to be almost transparent, the thread was once used for bowstrings, and is still preferred over synthetics in high-end shoemaking.

The fibre-making procedure in the video is also done with hemp and nettles. I’ve got a few hemp shirts, well-worn-in and comfy, and @dduane​ has a vintage smock made of nettle fabric.

It isn’t as soft as Egyptian cotton and wasn’t expected to be; however it’s certainly not as harsh as a hessian (jute, burlap) sack, and of course doesn’t sting. After what’s done to nettles to turn them into fabric, stinging is a long way in the past.

The process of turning tough - and in the case of nettles, actively unpleasant - plants into hard-wearing* cloth is fascinating, and has always made me wonder who, millennia ago, discovered it could be done.

* Hard-wearing? Oh yes. We inherited quite a bit of Irish linen from my Mum; the washing instructions on one beautiful damask tablecloth…

…were “rub soiled areas firmly with laundry soap then boil until clean”… Boil literally, in a pot on the stove. Hemp and nettle garments would be treated the same way.

Looking at this (probably while tingling and scratching)…

…might prompt vengeful thoughts of this (here’s our recipe on European Cuisines)…

…but how it ever prompted thoughts of this…

…is a fascinating question

memewhore:

storm-and-starlight:

mananabuffins:

It’s hard - really hard - to describe executive dysfunction to someone who doesn’t experience it, but here’s my attempt.

Imagine you’re in a car, and are in charge of navigating while someone else drives. You have a list of tasks you must complete.

You tell the driver to turn into the grocery store, and they keep going. Alright, at least we’re now we’re closer to the laundromat. Oops, missed that turn, you listening bud?

They’re listening, they just don’t care. They park the car and buy candy, or a cold little drink, and they even share! But meanwhile you still don’t have groceries or clean laundry. You ask again to go to the grocery store, and again you are ignored as they drive in circles, not really going anywhere but using up all the gas.

The next day, you do this again. And the next day, and the next. After a few days, you’re running out of food so you raise your voice as you pass the grocery store, and startle them into hearing you. They don’t talk to you for the rest of the day because they don’t like being yelled at, but at least you have groceries.

At least now that you’ve bought groceries though, you can do laundry- Except you’ve driven past it again, and are once again driving aimlessly. So, again, the next day, you raise your voice. You yell, you shout, and you force them to take the turn.

But then the next day they’re back to not talking to you, not listening to you, ignoring you, but your voice is rough and your throat is sore.

You ask for help, but all you get is navigational instructions. No matter how much you explain that you know where the grocery store is, that you know how to get to the laundromat, people keep describing the directions while ignoring the issue that you still can’t GET there, because they all drive their own cars and can steer wherever they please.

I’m tired of yelling. I’m tired of begging for drives because I can’t make the journey on my own. I’m tired of being in the passenger seat in my own life because I can’t make myself do the things I try to do. I’m tired of paying for fuel to go in circles.

A good example I’ve heard of the exact sensation is trying to touch a hot burner deliberately. You put your hand out, feel the heat, brain registers “this will burn me” and stops you from putting your hand down – like there’s a giant wall in the way between your decisions and your actions, so even if you tell yourself “I’m gonna do it, I really am,” a lot of the time you can’t.

Now imagine that sensation all the time, and for the most trivial shit imaginable.

stopthatbluecat:

Oh, Julian, loves to be pushed up against wall in whatever universe or mindscape…

gulducock:

look at this pic i found on twitter