My entire Avatar: The Last Airbender-Inspired Fashion series
The Water Tribe Line
The Earth Kingdom Line
The Fire Nation Line
The Air Nomads Line
Sketches by yours truly
oh….hello there. <3
What if I do a mini-t-Rex mini-giveaway…..??T-Rexes were born in wee little eggs, and they came out all tiny and adorable. I know, I know: paleontologists have been saying this for years, but we never believed them because they couldn’t produce tiny adorable plushies to prove it. UNTIL NOW.
Micro T-Rex is three inches of soft and fuzzy adorable, and comes with that removable plastic keychain clip you see pictured, so he’s ready to hang out wherever you go! He is Down for Hangouts!
I would type more but he’s TOO CUTE, look at his little arms, i’m DYINGGuys these just came out today and I really think you should buy one. Only $8.50! How can you put a PRICE on LOVE
This is a great idea! EVERYONE who reblogs this gets one entry, and tomorrow I will choose one reblog at random and send them one! REBLOG AWAY AND T-REX MIGHT COME LIVE IN YOUR HOUSE / HANG OFF YOUR FINGERS AND KEYS
Art Student
Wearing morality like tattoos I wish I had never gotten, yeah, I feel bad. ‘Cause I’m sitting on a table, naked in a room full of thirty people I have never met. Where there’s a man who’s been staring at my breast for far too long and a woman who’s drawing my inner thigh, and I only know that because she is blushing. Like she’s gay and just realized it. So, now while I’m leaving her with years worth of questions she’s gonna have to ask herself, they’re leaving me with $50 and a phone number in case I ever wanna come back…yeah, right.
You learn a lot about yourself while sitting unclothed with a bunch of people staring at you. Like how I don’t like sitting unclothed with a bunch of people staring at me or how that childhood trick of closing your eyes because if “you can’t see them, they can’t see you” does not actually work as proof by the fact that there is thirty various portraits of me scribbled on sketchpads scattered throughout the room. The stark white nakedness of page interrupted by the charcoal expressions of me, and I just wish all thirty-one of me could get up and dance out that door like ballerinas who still remember what it’s like to be innocent. Because ‘skin’ never sounded like such a dirty word, and money never felt more worthless, and people have a lot to learn about what to expect from one another, just like I have a lot to learn about what’s going too far.
So, as the crack of dawn turns into a dirty joke and the sun seductively rises to uncover the naked truth, I can see that life is not as grandly designed as we’d like. Sometimes the silver lining behind the cloud is just lightning waiting to burn your ass, but sometimes it’s hope. Dressed in aluminum foil packaging you’d barely recognize without lookin’ twice and I’m praying for rain. The kind of rain someone hears dripping in the background music of a blissfully liquid mix CD I listen to and say, “I love this song.” Like raindrops are clothes you wear to keep warm while you’re sleeping in a bed next to Beautiful who doesn’t even know you’re watching and she smiles before she’s even awake. Like the clouds have all cleared in her sleep and now she’s just left with silver dreams.
And that…is worth a whole lot more than money earned, spent forgetting what it feels like to be whole on a day when you’d convinced yourself that ‘skin’ was another word for armor and you were a shiny knight that could ride through anything. But even knights get knocked out by dragons on their way to fight bigger battles with the best of intentions. Like a six-year old swallowing a cup of bleach because she wanted to clean her insides. Don’t tell me about sacred temples. I’ve been breaking mine down and building it up since the day of its arrival, feeling like sometimes thought patterns and body language take alternate routes to get to the same location and scream at each other “Why weren’t you looking out for me?” Because bodies do things brain don’t like and brains think things that bodies would never do. And being naked? That’s only fun sometimes and compromising your morals for money is not fun ever.
And if any of this makes sense to you then…I’m sorry.
The awesomely insane Heaven and Hell nightclubs of 1890s Paris.
In modern times, you can find a stray cabaret or goth club in most modern metropolitan areas. But back in the late 19th century, your options were limited, albeit merrily deranged. Paris of the 1890s had several supernatural nightlife options, each of them with marvelously outlandish gimmicks.
At this gothic nightspot, visitors pondered their own mortality as they drank on coffins and were served libations (named after diseases) by monks and funeral attendees. Recalls Morrow:
“Large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, were ranged about the room in an order suggesting the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. The walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skeletons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillotines in action. Death, carnage, assassination were the dominant note, set in black hangings and illuminated with mottoes on death Bishop said that he would be pleased with a lowly bock. Mr. Thompkins chose cherries a l’eau-de-vie, and I, une menthe. One microbe of Asiatic cholera from the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer, and one sample of our consumption germ!” moaned the creature toward a black hole at the farther end of the room. Some women among the visitors tittered, others shuddered, and Mr. Thompkins broke out in a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious accompaniment of anger shone in his eyes. Our sleepy pallbearer soon loomed through the darkness with our deadly microbes, and waked the echoes in the “Drink, Macchabees!” he wailed: “drink these noxious potions, which contain thvilest and deadliest poisons!”
But Cabaret du Néant wasn’t the only creepy nightspot in Paris. Later in Bohemian Paris of To-day, Morrow described his evening at the Cabaret de l’Enfer (“The Cabaret of the Inferno”), a Satanically themed nightclub in Montmartre that abutted another cabaret. And according to the author’s account, it was perhaps the trippiest hangout of La Belle Époque:
“”Enter and be damned, the Evil One awaits you!” growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us. Near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musicians, male and female, playing a selection from “Faust” on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance. Crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a volcano. Flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns. Red imps were everywhere, darting about noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults. Everything was in a high state of motion.”
And right next door to the Cabaret de l’Enfer was Cabaret du Ciel (“The Cabaret of the Sky”), a divinely themed bar where Dante and Father Time greeted visitors and comely ladies dressed as angels pranced around teasing patrons. As Morrow recalled, the evening’s entertainment was presided over by St. Peter himself, who anointed the boozy crowd:
“Flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. These were the waiters, the garcons of heaven, ready to take orders for drinks. One of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously, “The greetings of heaven to thee, brothers! Eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. Mayst thou never swerve from its golden paths! Breathe thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation. Prepare to meet thy great Creator and don’t forget the garcon!”[Later], without the slightest warning, the head of St. Peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. He gazed solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched his left wing. From behind a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy water. After several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water; and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist.”
more at http://io9.com/5910963/the-awesomely-insane-heaven-and-hell-nightclubs-of-1800s-paris
n. the unsettling realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.
False alarm. Kim is still cooler than me. (Taken with instagram)
