wibblywobblyjeremybearimy

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gorgeous gorgeous girls love talking to themselves in their room and living out their silly little scenarios until they realise they are exhibiting serious signs of mental illness

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maybe my humors just broken

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[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

okay, if you could, reblog this and put your age and your favorite Fall Out Boy album. It’s for science

#23 almost 24 #from under the cork tree #take this to your grave is a close second

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

what do we think gang

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

I do wholeheartedly believe Wes Anderson is a sick sick freak. I like his movies but I definitely think this guy has like a hidden room in his spacious french apartment that he slips into quietly each night and it is just filled with tiny little doll replicas of all the actors he's ever used in any of his movies and he puppets them around and mimicks their voices and shit. and sometimes he'll text Owen Wilson pictures of his little doll with a comb or something from an untraceable number and pair it with like "see how I take care of you Owen?" and then the following day Owen Wilson will find him at the service table and go, "Geez Wes look at this," and Wes will pretend to be all concerned and horrified but there is this calculating almost eager look in his eyes that unsettles Owen Wilson. and the next time Wes is having a little soiree with all his actors, his beloved beloved actors, maybe Owen Wilson will accidentally get lost on his way to the beautiful bathroom and find that little room and see all those dolls and his throat will hitch with horror. And before he can call Bill Murray or Adrian Brody to look a dark silhouette will appear in the doorway and Wes looks sort of resigned when he says, "I see you finally found my secret, Owen," and Owen Wilson will try and pretend that he's fine with it but they both know better. and Wes will go (the look in his eyes back again) "We both know this can't get out, right?" and he'll grin very suddenly and Owen Wilson will laugh along very nervously and leave the room and eat some brioche and when the evening is over he will rush over to his Prius and frantically click his keys but over the cobbles on the beautiful beautiful street there is the sound of footsteps. and tears are running down Owen Wilson's cheeks but he can't say a word and Wes, emerging from the shadows, will gently touch him on the shoulder and say, "look, I'll drive you to the airport, huh?" and Owen Wilson will try to refuse but they both know it's futile. and, halfway through the drive, Wes Anderson will smile and say, "I'll miss working with you" and then perfectly jump and roll out of the car, wiping off his corduroy pants, while Owen Wilson's Prius swerves into a local patisserie, bursting into flames

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

On Fandoms, Age, and Gender: The Politics of “ Putting Away Childish Things”

Weighing in on yet another round of “fan spaces are youth spaces” (aka “go home and knit, old lady” or “You’re old enough to be my/someone’s mom! gross!” )

Consider these thoughts:

There’s a whole set of interests and behaviors that you might become interested in as you grow from child to adolescent to young adult and take greater interest in the wider world.

You might like horses, or dolls.  Or building models.  You might play soccer, or follow baseball every summer and learn about  box scores.   You might follow the college football draft, or love a pop band.  You might deeply admire a rock band and learn to play the guitar.  You might love superheroes and see all their movies.  You might love space opera and collect paperback books.  Maybe you collect trading cards of your favorite team players – or movie moments.  You probably get t-shirts and posters of teams, or media outlets.  You might get deeply into a social or political cause.

Those are all expressions of interest in the world, all with associated social aspects, many with associated creative actions. 

And then you get older.  And here’s the thing about that list.  The things on that list that are “for boys?”   Are also “for men.”   But the things on that list that are “for girls” or “for nerds?” Are only “for children.”  

Adult men wear brightly colored team clothing and paint their faces without shame.   They join fantasy football leagues and hang out online.   They follow Phish (or continuously talk about how they did when that was a thing).  They spend vast sums on tickets to bowl games.   They get excited all over the internet about Geddy Lee’s greatest hits.  They spend long afternoons on the golf course, playing very bad golf.

No one tells them to grow up 

An adult woman who turns a childhood dollhouse into a beautiful scale model of a real Victorian home is “eccentric.”  An adult man who builds a vast HO train layout in his basement is a “train enthusiast.”   An adult woman who displays her favorite Bryer horses is “odd,” an adult man with a shelf of signed baseballs is “a collector” or even “an investor.” 

Adult women making fanart of attractive movie stars is “creepy,’ while adult men decorating their garages with calendar art of scantily-clad very-young women is “just what guys do.”

Interests and hobbies that were feminine and are taken up by men become acceptable.   When The Beatles were greeted with mobs of fainting teen girls, they were a “boy band.”  When young men discovered them, they became Serious Musicians.  

Over and over, across fields of interest, things that girls like are “toys and games and childish” and should be left behind by adults, while things that boys like are “hobbies and sports” that are lifetime pastimes.  And acceptable “hobbies” for adult women?   Most are things that could be coded as household chores, but generations of women have worked to turn into enjoyable pastimes:  knitting, sewing, quilting.  Home decor.  Baking.   Many adult women (myself included) enjoy doing those things in their free time and have elevated them to art forms.  But that doesn’t change the fact that they’re rooted in utility, while “men’s hobbies” are, by and large, rooted in leisure.

Look around you and follow the pattern.  And then, before you ask “Why are adult women in fan spaces,” maybe ask “why do I feel like adult women don’t get to have fun?” 

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

DOCTOR WHO (2005-) “Turn Left” (4.11)

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Zoomed out while taking a picture of my Christmas tree

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and if you turn to ur left you’ll see the emos

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

No offense but the internet gives you the most wrong and fucked up idea of helping people because people get mad if you don't care about disasters happening in 72 countries, meanwhile the people in real life that are doing the most good picked one VERY SPECIFIC thing to care about and care about it REALLY HARD

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

rb this and tell me what ur accent is. this has no purpose except the fact i just realized i could have like... mutuals with cockney accents or newfoundland accents or something and thats just wild

#midwestern #ope let me squeeze right past you there #chicAHGo #that sort of thing

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

Idc if you think "poor little meow meow" is annoying, it's not the same as "cinnamon roll/smol bean" and you KNOW this. Cinnamon roll and smol bean were cutesy complimentary words used to mean "precious" or "adorable." When I call someone a poor little meow meow I am embodying the essence of a wealthy victorian widow lifting the chin of a shivering street urchin with her cane.

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

shang-chi and the legend of the ten rings + letterboxd reviews (tony leung edition)

[wibblywobblyjeremybearimy]

must i pursue a career? is it not enough to be obsessed with books, music, fictional characters and daydream all day because existing in general is unbearable?

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don’t mind me, just crying and throwing up

The Witness (7)

Summary: Your testimony is set to put away one of Boston’s biggest mobsters - your former boss. Stuck on an isolated farm with Marshal Steve Rogers, unexpected threats and complications arise as the trial approaches. [Angst, touched starved Reader, emotionally withholding Steve, anxiety, panic attacks, references to violence/murder, and other untagged themes.] 

Word Count: 3.2L

Pairing: Marshal!Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader and Andy Barber x Fem!Reader

Author’s Note: Thank you @emmabarnes​​​ for your fantastic beta work as always and for @whoknowsanymore124​​​ for holding my hand with this and letting me scream at you in the DMs. Reblog or comment if you enjoy!

Steve Rogers Masterlist

Witness Masterlist

You wake up, mouth like cotton, body achy. It’s still dark outside. There’s warmth along your back, Steve’s large body curled around yours. The way his soft breaths fall over your skin lets you know he’s still asleep. When you shift he inhales and tightens the arm around your middle, burrowing closer. The tip of his nose presses against the nape of your neck. His long fingers rest on your collarbone, twitching every now and again.

It feels incredibly good to be held like this, to have Steve’s scent and warmth surrounding you. Safe and protected. You don’t want to wake him, terrified he’ll pull away and you’ll lose this small bit of comfort. You dip your head, pressing your face against the back of his hand and take a deep breath. He smells good, familiar. Like his sweaters. Even though there’s no clock you can tell dawn is close and he always gets up shortly after. There’s only minutes left to enjoy this. You close your eyes and snuggle closer to him, committing the feel of being held so carefully to your memory.

When you next open your eyes Steve is gone, the sheets behind you cold. You have to blink and shield your eyes from the mid-morning sun streaming through the windows. It’s almost 10 am according to the digital clock on your nightstand. You can hear Steve moving around downstairs, glasses clinking. Your nose twitches at the smell of food.

Your limbs are stiff when you hobble towards the door, stopping to pull on the sweater you left on the chair last night. At the bottom of the stairs, you watch Steve move through the kitchen, flipping a pancake and refreshing his coffee. He’s wearing the same gray sweats as last night and a tight white shirt through which you can see the muscles in his back move.

“Breakfast is about done,” he says without turning around, startling you. “Sit down. Drink your tea.”

Keep reading

#andrew barber better sleep with one eye open