Tim (Burton) constantly has me killing his wife in his movies. I don’t know what that means.

Johnny Depp (via matthewhasting)

Eccleston was a tiger and Tennant was, well, Tigger. Smith is an uncoordinated housecat who pretends that he meant to do that after falling off a piece of furniture.

Steven Moffat (via stuff-and-shenanigans)

I kept looking at myself and getting angry at the fact I wasn’t fat enough!

Benedict Cumberbatch��(x)

expanding the list:
Things that Benedict Cumberbatch isn’t good at:
1) cutting tomatoes (x)
2) sweeping (x)
3) being fat enough

(via dudeufugly)

I love unmade beds. I love when people are drunk and crying and cannot be anything but honest in that moment. I love the look in people’s eyes when they realize they’re in love. I love the way people look when they first wake up and they’ve forgotten their surroundings. I love the gasp people take when their favorite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with people and their honest moments all the time. I fall in love with their breakdowns and their smeared makeup and their daydreams. Honesty is just too beautiful to ever put into words.

(via peachyogurt)

I’m building a home at the moment, and it would be nice to fill that home with love and life and children.

Benedict Cumberbatch, The Big Issue [x] (via houndingsherlock)

stop being such a perfect bitch. 

(via lecrieff)

fuck you you flawless bastard

(via viennawatson-holmes)

The views expressed were offensive. Rape is rape and the idea that we should be parsing and qualifying and slicing what types of rape we’re talking about doesn’t make sense to the American people and it certainly doesn’t make sense to me. What I think these comments do underscore is why we shouldn’t have a bunch of politicians, the majority of whom are men, making health care decisions on behalf of women.

President Obama today on Rep. Todd Akin (via barackobama)

It’s a tank that hates you.

                     - Steven Moffat

Best description of the Daleks in history.

(via rustunburnished)

“It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but there’s the weather for you.”

-Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman,��Good Omens (via firstphrases)

Cakes have gotten a bad rap. People equate virtue with turning down dessert. There is always one person at the table who holds up her hand when I serve the cake. No, really, I couldn’t she says, and then gives her flat stomach a conspiratorial little pat. Everyone who is pressing a fork into that first tender layer looks at the person who declined the plate, and they all think, That person is better than I am. That person has discipline. But that isn’t a person with discipline; that is a person who has completely lost touch with joy. A slice of cake never made anybody fat. You don’t eat the whole cake. You don’t eat a cake every day of your life. You take the cake when it is offered because the cake is delicious. You have a slice of cake and what it reminds you of is someplace that’s safe, uncomplicated, without stress. A cake is a party, a birthday, a wedding. A cake is what’s served on the happiest days of your life. This is a story of how my life was saved by cake, so, of course, if sides are to be taken, I will always take the side of cake.

Jeanne Ray (via fyoured)

This is exactly my take on nutrition.

(via beccaliving)

I love this quote so much I want to frame it to hang in my kitchen.

(via fitnerd)

It hurts because it mattered.

John Green  (via alberoni)

Why should women be paid equal to men? Men have been in the working world a lot longer and deserve to be paid at a higher rate. Heck, I’m a working mom and I’m not paid a dime. I depend on my husband to provide for me and my family, as should most women… and if a woman does work, she should be happy just to be out there in the working world and quit complaining that she’s not making as much as her male counterparts. I mean really, all this wanting to be equal nonsense is going to be detrimental to the future of women everywhere. Who’s going to want to hire a woman, or for that matter, even marry a woman who thinks she is the same, if not better than a man at any job. It’s almost laughable. C’mon now ladies, are you with me on this?

Ann Romney, wife of Republican presidential nominee Mitt Romney

[Source]

(via mr-charles)

“Oh, all those ridiculous people with zero talent who spend their lives making sure everyone knows their name. Those stupid, stupid people.”

-Jeremy Renner’s thoughts on the Kardashians and reality “celebrities”. 

(via fightingintheshade)

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her. Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice. Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same. Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love. Do those things, god dammit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick. Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness. Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.

- Charles Warnke

Oh my god

(via lunerunes)

I’m getting a fucking divorce.

my dad when my mom threw a draw 4 in uno  (via lampsarepeopletoo)

I’m getting a fucking divorce.

my dad when my mom threw a draw 4 in uno  (via lampsarepeopletoo)

England is just a small island. Its roads and houses are small. With few exceptions, it doesn’t make things that people in the rest of the world want to buy. And if it hadn’t been separated from the continent by water, it almost certainly would have been lost to Hitler’s ambitions.

Mitt Romney in 2010 • Saying something that probably isn’t going over too well right now in England. The quote is from his book “No Apology: The Case for American Greatness,” and resurfaced today amidst his visit to London. For the record, England isn’t a island. source (via • follow)

The beating heart of the nation. Londinium to the Romans. Lundenwic to the Saxons. Lundenburg to Alfred the Great. But to all generations since: London. Our London of today. London has known suffering… But London always rises again. London is a monument; to the hard times, to the good. Celebration of what we have been, what we are today. London. Our heart, and our sinews, and our voice. Poetry, and prose. People, and places. London now throws open its doors to a new theatre of dreams. A city in waiting. A city on the move; humans on the move. Fascination with making the next step faster, stronger, and being the fastest and the strongest. This… is London of the Olympic Games. And since this is our heart and our voice, London must feel and speak of romance, of love. London is ready- so take a deep breath… But not for long, for London is about to cry out… with heart and soul! Let the games commence.

Benedict Cumberbatch, London 2012 (via areyoutryingtodeduceme)

Have you seen most of the plus-size sections out there? It’s horrifying. Whoever’s designing for plus-size doesn’t get it. The entire garment needs to be reconceived. You can’t just take a size 8 and make it larger. In my travels, I’ve been an advocate for larger women. I’ve been talking to designers, but only a half-dozen make an effort. Most say, ‘I don’t want a woman who’s a size 10 or 11 wearing my clothes.’ Well, shame on you! It’s not realistic. We need to address real women with real needs.

Tim Gunn

(via healthylivingforyou)

My reading of it is that Connors wants to be a force of good in the world, and is developing a science that will enable himself — like reptiles do — to regrow a limb. And, on paper or in a computer model, this science is ready to go. It works. What he doesn’t reckon on is the kind of psychological effects that a coldblooded reptile would have on the human mind. What he experiences is almost something spiritual. There’s a hubris to him when he becomes the Lizard. He’s all powerful. He’s strong. He’s beautiful. He’s confident. He’s athletic. He’s lithe, ruthless, all the things that Curt Connors isn’t. And when you feel that high, I guess in some ways what a crystal meth addict feels, that all powerful thing. You want the world to feel like you, but it isn’t necessarily beneficial to humanity at large. It’s an ultimate selfish act. It’s kingly and godlike in the wrong way.

Rhys Ifans (MTV News)

More Daleks than you’ve ever seen in one place. Just lots and lots and lots of Daleks. We’ve got the weeping angels, tragedy, comedy, westerns, absolutely everything. I don’t think we’ve ever had a bigger variety of episodes than the ones we’re about to show you.

Steven Moffat on the new series (via your-bespoke-psychopath)