Kuro Tako/17/Gemini

Demigirl,
She/Her pronouns.

Most likely to hide under something when embarrassed.

1 234


punkrockbadger:

yamibakuraofficial:

punkrockbadger:

a cutie reblogged my selfie and called me cute????

cutie-ception

why are you so perfect

impart your secrets to me, your willing and devoted disciple

You’re both so cute about it oh man i’m gunna falloutofmychai

A Short Halloween PSA

tearlessrain:

Hey the thing I reblogged earlier reminded me to mention this:

I can promise all my followers that I do not post or reblog jump scares, ever, because A) I don’t like them and they suck, and B) I know at least a few of my followers have anxiety in one form or another and I’m not going to be that jerk.

So yes. There will be no jump scares from this blog, just wanted to ease your minds preemptively.

kane-kun:

arms tonite )

a happy kawoshin mix that’s really just about love in general

1. Everlasting Arms, Vampire Weekend 2. Kilojoules, Freelance Whales 3. We’re Going To Be Friends, The White Stripes 4. Girlfriend, Iconapop 5. Be Still My Heart, Postal Service 6. Out Of My League, Fitz And The Tantrums 7. I Would Do Anything For You, Foster The People 8. Moon Child, Cibo Matto 9. Tongue Tied, Group Love 10. I Will Follow You Into The Dark, Death Cab for a Cutie 11. I Just Came To Say Hello, Dragonette 12. Arms Tonite, Mother Mother

listen ) ( cover )

This is an ultimate masterlist of many, many resources that could be helpful for writers/roleplayers.

→ GENERAL

Improvement

Describing

Masterlists

  Body Language

Grammar/Vocabulary

Writer’s Block

→ APPLICATIONS

Application (Itself)

Para (Sample)

Prompts

→ GUIDES

Personalities

Disorders

Disabilities

Jobs/Hobbies/Beliefs

Drugs

Locations

Genders

Supernatural

Other

→ CREATING CHARACTERS

Biography Writing

Names

Personalities

Personality Traits
Habits

Secrets

Quotes

Mary Sue’s

→ WHILE ROLEPLAYING

Para Titles

Starters

Careers/Jobs

Locations/Settings/Activities

Character Developement

→ ROMANCE

Romance (in general)

Smut

Kisses

→ OTHER

Plot Writing

Eras

Ow so something weird has been going on since yesterday and in short I think I broke something.

It feels like there’s a something stuck in my chest near the back. I thought it was a knot at first, but if I move my arm the pain is like a chisel through my body.

And it hurts to breath or laugh too hard.

And I may have broken something? I don’t know about this stuff. I hug my friends a lot and really hard and I think that might be a problem.

Every time I think about the future I get scared because why did I pick 2d art.

I’m gunna die.

anatomicalart:

Let me link Yall’ to this holy grail.
I present to you Character Design Reference
on [Pintrest] || [Tumblr] || [Twitter] || [Facebook] || [YouTube]

I couldn’t even include all of the reference boards this blog contains on this photoset. That’s right! There’s EVEN MORE! There are pages and pages of them! It is an inspiration treasure trove!
Bookmark this link!
Fill your life with inspiration!

Is it okay to be mad at your parents, and kinda hate them? Yes.

I need to remind myself when they disregard me. I have worth, and their stepping over me deserves my negative response.

nonbinaryeldritchhorror:

hauriret:

based off this text post because its adorable

LOOK AT HOW CUTE THIS IS

ink-splotch:

  I was so tall.

You were older then.

Can we talk about Susan Pevensie for a moment?

Let’s talk about how, when the war ends, when the Pevensie children go back to London, Susan sees a young woman standing at the train platform, weeping, waving. 

First, Susan thinks civilian; and second, she thinks not much older than me.

Third, Susan thinks Mother.

They surge off the train, into their parents’ arms, laughing, embracing. Around them, the train platform is full of reunions (in her life, trains will give so much to Susan, and take so much away).

Over her mother’s shoulders, Susan sees Peter step solemnly back from his father so that Edmund can swoop in to get his hair paternally ruffled. She meets Peter’s eyes across the space, the way they saw each other over battlefields and tents full of the wounded, in negotiations and formal envoys.

She has always seen Peter when others only saw the king, only duty embodied in a young man’s slight, noble features. Susan can see him now, the way he looks at their father. Once, parents had meant protection, authority, solidity. But Peter’s shoulders are slender, are steady, will be weighed down every moment of the rest of his life. She can see it in him, the unreasonable hopes he had that as mighty a figure as a father might take some of that weight from him.

Their father has one hand on Lucy’s round cheek and he is weeping, for all he is pretending not to. He’s a good man, a portly one, thinner than when they left, but Susan can see the loss in the slope of Peter’s shoulders. This good man cannot lighten the king’s load; he only adds one more responsibility to the towering pile. Susan crosses the space to take Peter’s hand. He inhales and straightens his spine.

"You’ve all grown so much," their mother says.

Edmund is too young to register, but older now than he was at his first war; Lucy, who had been so young when they had left, grew into herself in a world filled with magic. All of them, they have responsibility pressed into their shoulders, old ropes they can’t even grasp for. No one is asking them to take that mantle on their shoulders, and that’s the hardest part. You get used to the weight. You build your world around it, build your identity into the crooks and crannies of the load you carry.

Can we talk about how much the gossipy young girls who cluster in the schoolyard must feel like children to her? And Susan has forgotten about being a child. She is the blessed, the chosen, the promised. Susan has decades on them, wars, loss and betrayal, victory and growing fields, the trust of her subjects. It was a visceral thing, to have all those lives under her protection and to know that her subjects slept safe, peacefully, on dark nights. Here, on this drab concrete, her people are untouchable, indefensible; her self is vanished, her kingdom gone; she can feel the loss like a wound. She has lost her power, but that trust, that responsibility remains. It circles her ankles, trips her in the school hallways.

She barely speaks to her schoolmates. The first few years back, guilt lives in her shaking hands.

For a long time Susan doesn’t want to be tied down to anything (she doesn’t want anything tied down to her, because she has, it seems, a pattern of disappearing). Peter pours himself into schoolwork and extracurriculars. He wakes and works, excels in his steady way, like he owes someone something. 

Lucy befriends wayward girls like they were shy dryads, sly naiads. Lucy walks the playground with all the bright, sprightly grace of a girl who could find worlds in the backs of wardrobes, and she finds smiles in schoolgirls, finds enough of herself to give away.

Lucy gives faith, Susan gives effort, time, work—there are many differences between them, these two sister queens, but this was one. But for a long time, after they return, Susan doesn’t give anything. She is a queen who has abandoned her kingdom and she feels that in the very bend of her spine. She will build no more kingdoms, she swears. Her shoulders ache under the weight of a responsibility she will never lose and now can never answer to.

It is Edmund, of all of them, who understands. He is the other who gets angry, for all he holds it in these days. He is Edmund the Just, after all, and weighs each word before he says it. She is Susan the Gentle, because she will give, will build; because where Peter is elevated by duty, she carries responsibility in soft hands, on worn shoulders, pours all she has into it.

It is Lucy who makes things more than they are. Girls are dryads and bullies are the cruel kind of wolf. Trees dance and every roar of a city bus is a hallo from a lion who is not tame. That is Lucy’s battle and she is as glorious as her sunrises. It would kill Susan to live her life strung between two worlds. They go on walks together, Lucy and her effortless blaze, Susan’s quiet sturdy stride. Lucy sings, but Susan watches; the trees do not dance. The trees are only trees.

A boy pulls at a girl’s pigtails across the schoolyard, yanks at the bow on the back of her dress. Susan sees a bully and she marches forward as a friend, a foe, a young woman furious and proud, a kingdomless queen. Susan draws herself up, the scant inches of height she will some day supplement with heels her siblings will scoff at. Dripping majesty, she moves across the ground (crowds part in her wake), and steps between the girl and the bully.

Let’s talk about how Susan was reading a book the day they went through the wardrobe; how she found it sitting, neatly bookmarked, beside her bed the day they came back. Her arms still felt clumsy then, her legs too short but also too gangly. She kept thinking about white stags, about if her mare got home safe, after, about the meetings she had lined up for the next week with the beavers, the heraldic university, the stonecutters’ union. She had paperwork on her desk she had meant to get to, petitions and letters from faun children who wanted to come on a field trip to Cair Paravel.

Susan had this waiting for her here, left out on her little bedside table: a penny and dime novel about a schoolgirl romance, half-read. Susan sat down on the twin mattress and took it in her hands. She remembered buying this, faintly (it had been years now; weeks before they boarded the train for the country, years from this weary shaking moment). She had wanted a detective mystery, but this had seemed more appropriate and she hadn’t wanted to look odd at the cash register.

At school, Susan sees a girl in mathematics who looks like a dryad, willowy limbs and distracted eyes. Where is your tree? Susan wants to ask. Is it safe? Is it blooming? She would fight to keep her safe, talk to her guards, go out on diplomatic missions, negotiate with the local woodcutters.

There’s a girl in the back row, shy, steady, who takes the best and swiftest notes in her very own shorthand. Susan finds herself wanting to recruit her for the Narnian scribe service. She shakes herself, but she approaches the girl after class anyway. Susan reads through wanted ads and helps the girl send out applications for internships.

Or another young woman; this one blazes bright, drawing people in her wake as she chases after efforts for raising money for a new library wing or cleaning up some local empty lot for the children. This girl laughs, shakes her mane of hair, and Susan wants to take her under her wing and teach her how to roar.

"Edmund is so solemn," says her mother, worried, to Susan. "Is he alright? And Lucy seems even less…" Her mother hesitates, chewing a lip.

"Present," Susan offers, because Lucy still has a foot in Narnia the way none of the rest of them do. Peter still holds the weight of his crown, certainly, and Edmund the load of his mistakes. Susan has the faded ink-stains of a hundred missives, orders, treaties, and promises she never got to send. (She wakes now, some nights, full of nerves for a formal audience the next morning, and remembers it is just a literature presentation. She feels relieved and useless).

But Lucy, Lucy walks in light. She dreams of dryads and when she closes her eyes she can hear them dancing in the wind on the upper boughs of the trees in the garden.

It is a stubborn faith, a steady one, harsh even. Lucy clings to things with two small hands that remember having calluses from reins, remember holding hands with dryads and dancing in the moonlight, remember running though a lion’s wild mane. Lucy grins (it is a defiance, not a grace, not a gift); she bares her teeth and goes dancing at midnight under trees that creak in a storm’s gale (she gets a cold and misses a week of school, for that). Lucy will believe until the end of the world, burning with that effortless faith. 

This is not effortless. “Such a happy child,” their mother says of Lucy, sighing relief, glancing uneasily at Edmund. Susan is not a happy child, but she is not meant to be. She is their stability, their quiet, the little, gentle mother, the nursemaid wise beyond her years. No one looks. They rely, and it makes Susan want to scream.

“Luce?” said Edmund. “Happy? I suppose. She’s more a fighter than any of us.”

Lucy gets up early in the mornings and goes outside to watch the sunrise while she eats her toast. Susan is jealous of her ease, for years; an early riser, a morning person, effortlessly romantic. There are days, when Susan is angry at schoolteachers, or missing her seneschal’s dry wit, days when Susan cannot find even the most glorious sunset to be anything more than just glaring light in her tired eyes. But Lucy, no, every day Lucy watches the sun rise and lets that fill her. Easy thinks Susan, jealous, and she is wrong. 

It is not for years that she realizes how much effort is tucked into Lucy’s bright smiles. The joy is not a lie, the faith is not contrived, but it is built. Lucy pulls herself out of bed each morning. She watches the fires of the day climb and conquer the sky, and dares her world to be anything less than magical.

Susan tired of bullies before she and her siblings had even finished with the White Witch’s defeat. She will stand it no more in this world than she had in Narnia. For the cruelest bullies: she digs up their weakness, their secrets, and holds them hostage. The misled, the hurting, she approaches sidelong, with all the grace of a wise ruler, a diplomat’s best subtle words against a foreign agitator with borders along an important trade route. The followers she sweeps past, gathers up, binds to her own loyalties. They may be allowed to become her fine guard if they deign to learn kindness, or at least respect.

Susan joins the newspaper because extracurriculars look good, and if she is going to live in this world she is going to do it well. She finds she likes it. She rubs ink into her palms and feels almost at home. She hunts down quaint little school stories overzealously, like the detectives in the novels stacked by her bed, like a queen hunting down secrets at her court.

(Lucy contributes poetry to the arts section of the paper. Susan only reads them on weeks she is feeling brave, because, like all of Lucy, her poetry picks you up and takes you away). 

When Susan wakes up, these nights, dreaming of ink on her fingers, she doesn’t expect to find her desk at Cair Paravel. Or, when she does, she squeezes her eyes open and looks around at the newspaper room on submission night. The copy editor fumes quietly, a writer hyperventilates in a corner, another clatters away. An editor coaxes into the telephone, talking with their printer, negotiating for time. It is not quite a council of war, but it is hers. It is not quite a kingdom, but Susan’s still a child, after all. She has time to grow into this skin.

When Caspian’s horn calls them home, the Pevensies stand in the ruin of their palace. Thick, old trees, not saplings, not young wildflowers, grow over the graves of the petitioners Susan had never gotten to meet with, of the children who had written her letters in careful, blocky handwriting. When I grow up I want to be as beautiful as you. 

Susan, standing in ankle deep grass on the cracked flagstones of the home she had spent most of her life in, has the gangly, growing limbs of an adolescent. A horn’s call (her horn) is ringing in her bones, centuries too late. That call has always been ringing in her, really, shaking her hands, reverberating her lungs, since the day a queen tumbled back through a wardrobe and into a life she hadn’t missed.

Susan stands under a mound, in the ruins of a castle, on a battlefield. Her Narnia has grown out of itself, grown into itself; her subjects are gone, but there is an army at her feet who trusts her. She left, but they did not lose faith. Susan does not feel absolved. She feels guiltier than ever, to know they kept faith she didn’t deserve. She wonders if this is how Aslan feels about Lucy.

The very shape of the land has changed. Mounds stand over old broken tables and rivers have become deep chasms. Her body is the body of a growing child, and her heart is that of a widow twice over.

When Susan leaves Narnia for the last time, she steps back into a world where she has ten articles to review by Monday, an essay due the next week, and a mathematics test on Friday. She has dishes to do and Lucy to keep an eye on. She wants to weep for days, but instead she goes home, plucks a detective novel off her bedside table, and tries to remember where she left off.

Susan doesn’t cry, but she hardly sleeps. That call is still humming in her bones (it always will, even when she learns to call it by other names). Susan snaps at her lioness, her dryad, her scribe; her bully boys flee at her short temper. One of her friends finally takes her aside. “What’s going on, Su? You can tell me.”

She forgot people could give you kindnesses back. “I lost something important,” Susan says, and the tears finally start to fall.

She weeps into her friend’s shoulder while she murmurs comforting things. “I’m right here.”

You are, Susan thinks. And so am I.

There is wind in the treetops. They are only trees.

Susan was the chosen, the blessed, the promised. She does not want to be promised. She wants to promise, instead, to take the hands of brave friends and try to build something new. 

The only thing that will compare to this grief will happen years later, a train crash, a phone call to her flat to tell the awful news to the next of kin. Now, losing Narnia, these four are the only ones here who will remember that world. There is a loss in that. There is a fragility in that which terrifies.

After the crash, Susan will be the only one left to remember them.

Maybe it was a shunning and maybe it was a mercy, to leave Susan to grow old. She had had too many kingdoms ripped from her aching fingers to be willing to lose this one, so instead everything else she had was taken away.

Maybe it was an apology. Maybe a lion could better understand mourning the loss of a kingdom than the loss of siblings. Maybe he thought he was being kind. 

As Susan grows, her schoolmates stay in touch, young girls who grew in her shadows or strode in blazing light before her (both are strengths), the ones who walked with her and learned majesty from her older bones. She gets letters from her bullies, too, the ones she subverted through threats or kindnesses. Some are fathers, railway operators, preachers, bookshop cashiers. Her girls are mothers, some, or running libraries, charities, businesses from behind the throne; one is a butcher’s apprentice of all things, another battling her way towards a Ph.D.

One married a farmer’s boy with a warm smile and moved out into the country. Susan goes out to visit and they go walking through her fields and little copses of trees. The trees are only trees, and some of Susan’s heart will always break for that, but she watches her friend’s glowing face as she marks out the edges of her land, speaks with her hands. The trees are only trees, but they are hers.

Susan goes home by train, the country whisking by outside. She pours over notes, sketching article outlines in her notebook, deadlines humming in the back of her mind. Her pen flicks over the paper, her fingers stained with ink. This is hers.

Years later, Susan digs up old copies of her school papers. She goes through them, one by one, and reads each of Lucy’s poems.

Cross-legged on the floor, she cries, ugly sobs torn out of her, offered out to ghosts of sisters and brothers, parents, Narnian children grown old and buried under ancient trees, without her. Lucy’s poems take her away (they always do) and leave her weeping on her living room floor in her stockings.

Susan stacks the papers neatly, makes herself a mug of tea and goes outside. The trees are only trees. This is a curse. This is a blessing. She breathes deep.

Peter was the only one who understood as well as she did what it was to be the rock of other people’s worlds. She remembers Edmund every time rage swells in her stomach, every time she swallows that rage down and listens anyway.

On early mornings Susan rolls out of bed, all groans and grumbles, and scribbles down a thought or two about her latest article if anything percolated during the night. She does her make-up on her apartment’s little balcony. Susan watches the rising sun light the sky and dares her life to be anything other than hers. 

Companion to this post. 

j0ye:

healthy-happy-andfit:

ourdrunkitchen:

juliebooli:

dotanon:

kripke-is-my-king:

vexie-chan:

midnitedancer:

sdelabelle:

cute-sexual:

thelittlecoyoteinitiative:

This needs to be rebloggable …

number 9 tho

number fucking 9. there was a dude that would play his guitar outside of my window at 1 am all the time

Some bits that I’ve picked up:

There’s a general rule of college that if you were sitting in that seat for over two weeks, that is your seat. Not many if any professors have seating arrangements but switching seats will fuck everyone up.

Get there early and stay late. As soon as you get home you will not want to do shit. Stay on campus and do some homework while you’re in the environment.

SIT UP FRONT. The best way to start understanding something is to listen to someone talk about it and you can’t do that from the back of the class trying to listen over everyone whispering to each other. LISTENING WILL MAKE HOMEWORK SO MUCH EASIER. 

Be childish, but be respectful. Have a massive snowball fight across campus, but don’t aim for anyone not taking part. 

SHUT THE FUCK UP IN THE LIBRARY. Some people work there, some people sleep there. It is a quiet space. 

Don’t be afraid to talk to professors. They are not there to flunk you. They would rather you pass than not.

IF YOU NEED TUTORING GET TUTORING DON’T WAIT UNTIL YOU’VE DUG YOURSELF INTO YOUR GRAVE.

Get involved. It will help you make friends, give you new skills to learn, and even help you get a leg up in the work place if you know the right people.

I will add to this as a GTA:

   Take time for yourself—buy a planner, figure out when your best study hours are, figure out WHERE you study best, and figure out how much time you need to complete an assignment—AND THEN make sure to pencil in an hour for video games, some time to watch a TV show, or time to just lay on your floor and blow bubbles. Whatever you like. Don’t forget about YOU.

  SLEEP. EAT. DRINK WATER. Don’t die. Caffeine =/= sleep. I cannot emphasize that this much. 

    AND MOST IMPORTANTLY:

  COMMUNICATE WITH YOUR INSTRUCTORS! If you’re sick, shoot an e-mail and say “Hey, I’m sick today. Can I set up a time to talk to you about what I missed?” If you’ve got a good opportunity (scholarships, to go to another country, to check out a cool lecture, etc.) let your prof know ahead of time. If you just need time to work on projects, all it takes is an e-mail. We understand. I gave a student a free skip day because he e-mailed me and said “Hey, look, I have two massive tests and a project due and I need the time to study.” And THAT IS OKAY.

   However, sometimes you just need a personal day, and you know what, when you wake up and getting out of bed seems like the worst idea ever….just turn off your alarm and get that sleep.

Some additionally tid-bits that might help you 

  • Before signing up for classes, look on “ratemyprofessor.com" and see if the teachers at your campus are included. There may be two or more teachers for the same course, and you want to try and pick the good/easy one. Who your professor is can have a great affect on what grade you make, even for the "same" class. 
  • Look for a facebook group for your "graduating class" set up, which is a good way to make friends and find people with similar interests (particularly for introverts). 
  • Look for a facebook group for each of your courses. If there isn’t one, MAKE ONE and send it out via the course email or word of mouth. These groups are helpful for if you missed class and need the notes, and especially for review time before exams. 
  • If no one else does it, make a google doc of the exam reviews and post it on the class facebook page. That way everyone contributes to the review. 200 brains are most definitely better than 1. 
  • During lectures, unless Internet is required, TURN IT OFF. If it’s on, you WILL end up on tumblr or some other site, and you will miss important shit. 
  • For the love of God, pay attention to your syllabus. Sometimes assignments are listed there, and that’s the only place it’ll be mentioned. Also, if it says to do a reading by a specific date, DO THE READING BY THAT DATE. Otherwise you will get behind, and you will have 200+ pages of textbooks to read in one night before the test, and you will cry.
  • Yes you actually need to do the readings. Yes it is a lot. Yes it will suck. Do it anyways. 
  • If you are used to getting all A’s, do not cry when you get a B. Take it from someone who killed herself for two years to maintain a 4.0, it feels like the end of the world when your GPA drops, but it’s not. You’ll be okay. Just breathe and do your best. Your best is good enough.

Addons—

Try to make sure you leave an open hour around midday so that you have time to get food in you. A lot of people forget to do this. If you have to have back to back classes, check your syllabus or with your teacher—some midday classes allow you to bring in a drink and a snack. Some will even allow you a full meal.

If you can get an online/pdf copy of the book without busting the bank, DO IT. Sometimes there are even annotated versions online. This can make notetaking a shitton easier, because you can highlight printed-out versions of the book and they won’t dock you on the money back. Sometimes professors move through their lecture too fast for you to write stuff down. Shrugging off that old ‘don’t ruin your books’ rule you had in high school may be your only hope.

UNLESS YOU NEED THEM OR REALLY WANT TO KEEP THEM TRY TO SELL BACK YOUR BOOKS—maybe even offer them online to incoming students. You won’t get nearly the worth of them but someone after you will thank you a million times over for providing a used copy. If you take good notes, you can sometimes buy/sell those as well. A lot of professors teach literally the same class every time.

IF YOUR PROFESSOR PUTS NOTES ONLINE GET THEM. GET THEM NOW. TRUST ME. YOU WANT THOSE NOTES. Bring them in with you if it’s possible to get them before class.

Keep change on hand. Always.

The Best Way To Make Friends:

Bring a printer with you to college and offer to print people’s stuff for half of what the school does or for free if you can afford it.

Carry around small candies with you and offer them to people while waiting outside of class. If you are the ‘candy person’ this gives you an in for starting conversations.

Buy a jumbo pack of chalk and find an open sidewalk on a free day. Write the words ‘Come draw with me?’ and begin doodling.

Have a pack of cards.

Last But Not Least: if you go onto campus and you can’t find what you’re looking for, and you are afraid to go up to someone and ask, find an open, well-populated area, hold your schedule/map in hand, and walk in circles for a few minutes, looking up and around in obvious confusion. Other students know this body language well. Someone will stop and point you in the right direction. (if you are worried that the person’s directions are a joke or faulty, wait for them to leave and take up the stance again; if the directions match-up the second time, they’re legit; do not allow a person to ‘show you the way’ unless EVERY STEP is along an obvious walkway, just in case)

For those of you who fear assault, most campuses aren’t much for small blades or mace. Carry a pocket air horn or a hand bag of those little pop-rock fireworks unless you can get a concealed weapons permit.

Adding my own tidbit:

Make friends with transfer kids. Chances are, they won’t be able to live in the dorms and it’ll be ten times harder for them to meet people since they have to drive to and from campus. It’s also fun hearing about their experiences before the college you both go to. 

Make friends with an older student. I’m talking about students who have families and full-time jobs. You can learn a lot from them, and they honestly have the best stories. They’re often the smartest and the most dedicated, so they make great study buddies. 

I don’t think RateMyProfessor.com can be emphasized enough. Yeah it’s great to see if you have a crappy professor or not, but it can also help you save hundreds of dollars from other students just letting you know if you actually use your textbooks or not and if a professor’s teaching style is one that will be beneficial to you.

I’m so happy that I read this!!

Go to fucking class. Do not skip just because you don’t feel like going, even if the class isn’t based on attendance.

I know it’s already been mentioned but communicate with your professors. I started having panic and anxiety attacks in class and talked to my professor, who allowed me to take an incomplete on the class and finish it before the next term so I could focus on getting better. Professors do give a shit, I promise.

Don’t depend on caffeine to keep you awake, and don’t depend on pizza to keep you full. You will get sick. Eat healthy food.

Attend the free events. Even if it’s just for the free food, you’ll get some entertainment.

Expect to go through a weird young adult life crisis where you’re truly figuring out who you are. Embrace it, do some art, write, you’ll get through it.

Carry around some cash, but never more than $30 on your person.

Invest in good shoes. It really sucks walking to class in shoes that make you hurt.

Make a friend in each class! They can give you notes if you miss a day, and it’s nice having someone to talk to while you’re waiting for the lecture to start.

GET SOME MOTHERFUCKIN CONDOMS

ricelily:

All these pages are 8.5x11, 300 dpi. Feel free to print it out in full size if you like physical copies

Comics and Comic Artists

Jake Wyatt- deviantart tumblr

"Welcome To Summers"

"Soliloquy"

Suggested Reading/Books:

Scott McCloud’s “Making Comics” (entirely done in comic format)

Exercises/Practices/Tutorials:

Lettering

Speech Bubbles Mistakes

Paint Bucket Resource

Storyboarding and Camera angles

What is DPI?

Transferring Traditional to Digital (Photoshop Tutorial)

1,225%

garrisonbabe:

accidentally swapped phones with someone at a party and don’t realize until their mom calls in the morning and you spend like three hours talking to this hilarious woman about life and when you go to her house to return her kid’s phone wow the kid is the really good kisser from the party last night au

What it was going to be, we were trying to complicate the relationship between Cap and his S.H.I.E.L.D agent friends. If Hawkeye got a call from S.H.I.E.L.D saying Captain America is a fugitive, would he listen to that call or not listen to that call? That sequence actually was heartbreaking for us to cut it. I think it ultimately might have been a conflict with Renner’s schedule. But there was a great sequence where Hawkeye was chasing Cap through Washington D.C. there was an awesome sequence where they confronted each other in a ravine on the outskirts of D.C. and Hawkeye was shooting a series of arrows closing in on Cap, Cap closing in on him. And then Cap took him down and he realized for the first time that Hawkeye was trying to trick S.H.I.E.L.D, where he whispered something into Cap’s ear that Cap had a tracker on his suit and to punch Hawkeye to make it look real, because there was a Quinjet hovering above where they were watching the feedback back at S.H.I.E.L.D. So it was a cool sequence.

Details on the cut Hawkeye sequence from Captain America: The Winter Soldier. (via iputabirdonmyhead)

WHY WAS THIS CUT OMG

(via stuffimgoingtohellfor)

Well now we all know where Hawkeye was during Cap 2.

(via liamdryden)

NOOOOO

(via gingerhaze) ←