westward ho, son, westward ho





is this from this year? I didn’t think there was a Halloween episode this year?

It’s a promo pic from last year (Keaton). Schmidt’s moving out…

Ah ok now it makes sense thanks

We didn’t get him touching her shoulder in the ep as aired. *tear* The editors are philistines!

Ooof, look how big his hand is on her shoulder. His thumb across her collarbone.

#hands   #boys   #perving   #etc   #keaton   #new girl  

Magic, perfect bb.


The ultimate dad joke compilation

I’m laughing so hard I’m crying and my stomach hurts oh my god.

lulabo asked: the amount of money I would pay for a Nick/Paris fic... way more than I can even think of ever having in the bank, basically. I want it. I want it SO HARD.

(circa 2007/2008ish?  Inspired by this nonsense.  Goddammit, lulabo.)

He’s visiting Bobby out in Boston which always seems more exciting ahead of time and which always seems to end up with him in some overpriced dive like this, where Bobby’s drinking a Tequiza and shouting obscenities at the Sox-Yankees game on TV.

The girls at the table near the door squeal as the server brings them a giant bowl of sangria and Nick snorts.

"Idiots," he says, just as the girl at the next table says the same thing. She looks over at him startled.

"That’s week-old wine and fruit juice," he says as explanation, unfolding his arms to gesture in their direction. "Might as well drink something poured down the drain."

"That much sugar and bad wine, why don’t you just jump ahead and write ‘hangover’ across tomorrow in your floral day planner," she says in reply. She talks fast.

"If ya’ wanna drink wine, drink wine," says Nick, setting his Narragansett on the table with a thud and warming to the topic.

"If for some unfathomable reason you want to drink boozed-up juice, at least have the dignity to use liquor in your Coolatta," she says, leaning in.

"AI, PAPI!" Bobby shouts at the TV, jumping to his feet with so much energy he knocks his chair over. The girl rolls her eyes and takes a swig from her Harpoon bottle.

"I’m Nick," says Nick. She looks at him warily, assessing him.

"Paris," she says after a moment and sticks out a hand. Her handshake’s so firm Nick almost yelps.

"Cousin," Nick says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Bobby.

"Co-med school airheads," Paris says, nodding towards the sangria girls. "Spoiler alert, no one’s going to know how to divide the check and they’re going to take the green line for one stop on the way home."

She pauses and eyes him again.

"So what’s your story?" she says, direct. "You’ve got a working class sartorial sensibility without the Southie accent. And if you’re at BU, we should just stop talking right now."

Nick’s not quite sure whether to be insulted, but he thinks he likes it. She reminds him a little of Caroline. He scrapes his chair an inch closer across the bar floor and leans in.

posted 2 hours ago with 17 notes


i just realized that fucking ross geller got tenure in the field of paleontology at, like, age 30? and must’ve been hired at that tenure track position in his mid-20s? how was he so young? how old was he when he got his PhD? did he just… get a job after graduating without even doing a postdoc? is this what the 90s were like? fuck the 90s. fuck ross geller. fuck the way rachel got that coffee shop job with no experience

This post is amazing.

These two making each other break is my One True Fandom.

#tds   #colbert   #jon stewart   #breaking   #je t'adore  

I had to stare at this for quite a long time before I realized the interviewer was asking about Nick and Jess, not Jake and Zooey.




do you ever wonder how a character is doing after a series is over

a/u crossover where Nick moves in with Rory and Paris and there is A LOT of squabbling and A LOT of dumplings


Can you fax it to me. From Toothpaste For Dinner.

oh my god YES


Have you forgotten what we were like then
when we were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

                                      O you
were the best of all my days

[Frank O’Hara, Animals]


When you are 13 years old,
the heat will be turned up too high
and the stars will not be in your favor.
You will hide behind a bookcase
with your family and everything left behind.
You will pour an ocean into a diary.
When they find you, you will be nothing
but a spark above a burning bush,
still, tell them
Despite everything, I really believe people are good at heart.

When you are 14,
a voice will call you to greatness.
When the doubters call you crazy, do not listen.
They don’t know the sound
of their own God’s whisper. Use your armor,
use your sword, use your two good hands.
Do not let their doubting
drown out the sound of your own heartbeat.
You are the Maid of Untamed Patriotism.
Born to lead armies into victory and unite a nation
like a broken heart.

When you are 15, you will be punished
for learning too proudly. A man
will climb onto your school bus and insist
your sisters name you enemy.
When you do not hide,
he will point his gun at your temple
and fire three times. Three years later,
in an ocean of words, with no apologies,
you will stand before the leaders of the world
and tell them your country is burning.

When you are 16 years old,
you will invent science fiction.
The story of a man named Frankenstein
and his creation. Soon after you will learn
that little girls with big ideas are more terrifying
than monsters, but don’t worry.
You will be remembered long after
they have put down their torches.

When you are 17 years old,
you will strike out Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig
one right after the other.
Men will be afraid of the lightening
in your fingertips. A few days later
you will be fired from the major leagues
because “Girls are too delicate to play baseball”

You will turn 18 with a baby on your back
leading Lewis and Clark
across North America.

You will turn 18 
and become queen of the Nile.

You will turn 18 
and bring justice to journalism.

You are now 18, standing on the precipice,
trembling before your own greatness.

This is your call to leap.

There will always being those
who say you are too young and delicate
to make anything happen for yourself.
They don’t see the part of you that smolders.
Don’t let their doubting drown out the sound
of your own heartbeat.

You are the first drop of a hurricane.
Your bravery builds beyond you. You are needed
by all the little girls still living in secret,
writing oceans made of monsters and
throwing like lightening.

You don’t need to grow up to find greatness.
You are stronger than the world has ever believed you to be.
The world laid out before you to set on fire.
All you have to do
is burn.


For Teenage Girls With Wild Ambition and Trembling Hearts, Clementine von Radics 

I am legitimately tears-on-my-face crying.  I feel so wildly protective of girls and teenage girls, having been one myself, having known so many amazing ones.  All that ferocious feeling and ways the world is out to kick your feet out from under you and ways of triumphing, of doing phenomenal things, of living, bright and unwavering.




Perfection in a GIFset.



His look, and her look.This always gets me.Damn.

This is the hottest Nick Miller ever looked on New Girl. He wants her. He knows she wants him. Wary of what she’s gonna do, but confident of what he wants to do.

THISSSSSSS.  And the scene is set so well: the dim apartment, the bruise on his cheek, the bandage, the cold spoon sliding out of her mouth as she gives him that defiant look from under her bangs.  The pile of dry kindling right before the match.

#new girl meta   #qhc   #makeouts   #a blog  


If you are female, expressing hatred for your own body is not just acceptable, it’s practically de rigeur. Failure to indulge in the requisite amount of self-flagellation – my thighs! my skin! my face! – isn’t just negligent, it’s unfeminine. Self-hatred is fundamental to how femininity is constructed, more fundamental than any of the more obvious external symbols (dress, make-up, shoes). What matters is not that you are beautiful, but you know your place in the beauty hierarchy (and since every woman ages, every woman’s place will eventually be somewhere at the bottom).

Young women are encouraged to bond over their dislike of excess body hair, surplus flesh and “uneven” skin. They are meant to do so in a jovial way, egged on by perky adverts informing them what “real women” do: worry about having underarms beautiful enough for a sleeveless top, celebrate curves with apologetic booty shakes and cackle ruefully over miserable Sex-and-the-City-style lunches of Ryvita and Dulcolax. It’s a gendered ritual; men get football and booze, women get control pants and detoxes. We are supposed, of course, to be grateful. Hey, you don’t have to be perfect! Just know you’re not perfect and act accordingly, with the appropriate levels of guilt and shame!

Fairy tale after fairy tale tells us that what matters is being beautiful “on the inside” but what does that really mean? It means submission, obedience and the suppression of one’s own desires. Don’t be haughty and proud. Clean the hearth. Kiss the frog. Love the beast. Suck it up when you’re replaced by a younger model. Sure, you may look fine, but you mustn’t feel fine. You mustn’t be vain. You mustn’t be angry. All fury and pain must be turned back on itself. That way you’ll be a real princess: silent, fragile and never threatening to challenge the status quo.


Glosswatch, Almost Famous, real women, and the normalisation of self-hate. 

Right now our “liberation” is not escaping from this horrible feeling; it’s embracing it, wallowing in it, deciding that being pretty on the inside is the best we can do. But this surely isn’t right. We shouldn’t settle for pretty on the inside when we’re also flesh and blood, feeling and thought.