Queen Never CRY. 🖤 (shitpost)

My tumblr in a nutshell

oh hey look guys its a bird its a plane its even more of my shit content 

Now, rerun and snoopy are perfect too

reblog if your icon is a perfect human being

Sally brown is perfection

I can die in peace

So um. Earlier today I was thinking that I wish there was footage of Hermann Goering dancing. And then I decided to put too much time into making this crappy (yet amusing) gif. I do apologize to all my followers, and to anyone who comes across this in a search some day.

why are star wars planets more boring than earth and our solar system like sure we’ve seen desert, snow, diff types of forest, beach, lava, rain, but like… 

rainbow mountains (peru)

red soil (canada/PEI)

rings (saturn’s if they were on earth) 

bioluminescent waves

northern lights (canada)

salt flats (bolivia, where they filmed crait but did NOTHING COOL WITH IT except red dust?? like??? come ON)

and cool fauna like the touch me not or like, you know, the venus flytrap.. and don’t get me started on BUGS like… we have bugs cooler than sw aliens

BASICALLY like???? come on star wars you had one (1) job where are the cool alien species

Reminder: Charles Schulz actually made a Harry Potter reference in Peanuts during its final year

Anthony Fokker (b. 6 april 1890/ d. 23 december 1939) a.k.a. The Flying Dutchman. He was a Dutch aviation pioneer and skilled pilot. Sure, he might have been an unscrupulous businessman, but he did put in his two cents in aviation technology and designed planes flown by The Red Baron, Manfried von Richtofen (another worthy history crush!), himself. 

☺

war knocks on your door with ironed clothes and clipped greetings, jaws closed around your father’s throat like a noose before he can even try to invite it in. your mother doesn’t tell you much, but you’ve heard the news on the wireless, heard the words your father sent you away for, heard them from your perch atop the stairs, nails digging into your older brother’s shoulder and silent tears begging for your other siblings not to wake.

war shakes your father’s hand and drags him out before he can let go. your mother’s shaking fingers brush down her skirts with care. she asks you to help her with the chores, her smile too wide and eyes too wet. you pretend not to hear her at the kitchen table late at night, trying her hardest not to let you hear her grief. she joins the factory, irons her work clothes with a sigh, and comes home to scrub her hands until the skin is raw. 

war pushes down on your family like lead. your siblings drag their feet, their shoulders curved forward and down in slouches that make your chest ache. you brush down your dress and tell them to straighten up, to take steps with purpose. it doesn’t work often, your voice far different than that of your mother or father. you don’t know how to make them listen. the binding of the book in your lap creaks under your curling hands, your brother rolls his eyes and stomps up the stairs like a wild animal, his shoes a tripping hazard for all that dare come after him. your sister—curled up in that armchair nobody else dares touch in your younger brother’s presence anymore—cries into the bear your father presented her with on her sixth birthday. your older brother stumbles after you all like a shadow with a cracking voice, failing as much as you when it comes to commanding order. he makes your mother tea, carries the laundry, tries his hardest to fix the sink. he yells when things go wrong, as desperate as you to help. it doesn’t make a difference.

war draws shadows under your mother’s eyes as she brushes her thumbs over your cheeks and tells you to be a big girl. your younger brother doesn’t listen and your sister cries. you don’t know how to do this, how to hold yourself like the woman sending you into the unknown to keep war’s blood-stained grip away. you brush down your clothes, straighten your brothers’ jackets even as one flinches under your touch and the other almost crumbles between your shaking fingers. you hold your sister and pray for war to walk away.

war hands you weapons amidst melting snow, your older brother’s hands stain red, your sister sobs into the fur of a lion you can’t help but curse just a little, and your younger brother’s bruised face won’t look at you straight on.

your bow creaks under your curling hands. war greets you with a smile.

I don't care if this is from my peanuts blog I need it here

This what happends when you let me home alone with my phone, peanuts stuff and pics art

Some old kinda ugly Greek portrait stuff (would you guys want to see others?)