Okay fine, I'll put in a blurb. I'm Mormon. I'm 30. I'm a cosplayer, because I apparently feel the need to spend my money faster. I like Harry Potter, particularly Luna Lovegood or anything Hufflepuff. I like Doctor Who, and particularly love Rory Williams. I like Sherlock, and my favorite character is Molly Hooper. Other favorites are Wonderfalls, Gargoyles and Avatar: The Last Airbender. I'll reblog nearly anything with Louise Brealey, Arthur Darvill, Missy Higgins or Caroline Dhavernas in it. I tried really hard not to ship Sherlolly but Series 3 broke me and now I can't stop myself. Hello! Nice to meet you.
I just want to reiterate for all of you out there who ever were, are or will be in a situation that is threatening to your well-being: The complete name is not “fight or flight”, it’s actually “fight, flight, faint, freeze”. Those are the emergency responses your body knows and will use as deemed appropriate to keep you save (or as save as possible) in a given situation.
You are not a coward for freezing, fainting or really any way your respond to a threat. You do not deserve to ever be put in such a situation. There is no reaction to a threat that could make you the one being in the wrong or responsible.
Young men need to be socialized in such a way that rape is as unthinkable to them as cannibalism.
Mary Pipher, Reviving Ophelia (via erkings)
Fun fact: Canada launched the “Don’t Be That Guy” rape prevention campaign targeted at potential rapists rather than potential victims was launched… and the number of reported sexual assaults fell by 10 per cent. within that year. Rape prevention NEEDS to start with education and focus on the perpetrators, not just policing the behavior of potential victims.
This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.