leaveharmony:

I don’ know what to do because the size chart and measuring tape agree that my waist should make the dress should be a size 16, not a ten (my dresses tend to be either 10s, 12s or occasionally 8s).  And my hips a ten, and my bust a 14?  But if I cut the pattern out one way I can’t un-cut it later if that’s wrong and i’m just sitting here staring at it and trying not to cry.  I’m so tired and nothing is ever just simple enough for my useless fat ass to figure it out

Is the pattern from one of the big-name sewing-pattern companies (MCall’s, etc)? Have you measured the pattern pieces and added them up to see if the waist measurement is actually the same size as it says for a 16 on the back of the envelope? Sorry that I’m not putting this very well — basically, the modern commercial patterns tend to include “design ease” which means they come out a couple of sizes bigger than claimed — that’s supposed to be your wiggle room for making adjustments. So you may end up having to go for the size ten, regardless of what it claims you need. Do you have any old sheets or something you can use to do a test version before you cut into the good fabric?

maxiesatanofficial:

skarchomp:

*wakes up and turns on my giant complicated yet charming series of rube goldberg machines that make my breakfast but i mess up the combination and get scorching hot eggs tossed in my face*

Pretty fucked up to see people uncritically reblogging this when OP’s automated hedge-trimmer rendered all my topiaries cubist as well as slicing my belt in two, causing my pants to fall down and reveal a whimsically-patterned pair of boxer shorts

You can’t deny their piano-moving pulley system worked great,
though; at least until that dog with the spot across one eye chewed through the
rope.

marypsue:

marypsue:

forthegothicheroine:

It’s not a movie anybody wants, but probably the most faithful way of adapting Dracula’s epistolary format would be as a found footage movie.

I’d pay money for this.

The Count takes Jonathan’s handheld video camera instead of his shaving mirror. Jonathan’s shaky phone-cam recording of the Count lizard-walking down the castle wall, Jonathan whisper-yelling ‘DO YOU SEE THIS??? ARE YOU SEEING THIS?????’ to what he hopes is some future audience, but may only be his future, doubting self. Jonathan’s phone dropping through his fingers, the camera still recording, catching only the moonlit edges of dust motes swirling into filmy white robes, the whispering of the wind turning into women’s voices, and somewhere offscreen, the wails of an infant.  

Lucy’s Skype sessions with Mina, growing fewer and farther between. Lucy growing paler with each session. The connection from Romania is terrible, but that can’t completely account for how white, how worried her pixelated face appears. 

Jack Seward’s vlog (about two views for each video, one of which is always Lucy).

Arthur on MTV’s Cribs.

Quincey’s Survivorman-style reality show.

Black and white footage from all the past ages of film when Van Helsing is explaining the Count’s history.

I heartily approve of the above. Also, to put the op’s statement
another way – when the found-footage horror subgenre first got going, my
reaction was “ok, so this is an updated, visual version of a pretty traditional
literary horror convention – the found diary, the message in a bottle, the openings
scenes to works like The Turn of the Screw, in which people at a house party
are talking about ghosts and someone says “I know a *real* ghost story –
let me get out the letters from my friend/relative who witnessed it and wrote
it down as it happened.”

elodieunderglass:

gallusrostromegalus:

It’s time for another Installment of Family Lore from my wierd-ass childhood!

Story contains: poor childhood decisions, profanity, extremely poor animal handling practices, and a semi-graphic description of an injury.  Mind the content warnings, your health comes first. As usual, all names have been changed to protect everyone’s privacy.  rest of the story under the cut to avoid a five-mile post.

*

This is the story of the first time I said the word “Fuck” In front of my mother.

---

When I was a kid, my parents would drive to Ohio from California every other summer of so to visit my Mom’s family, who never figured out that they can escape. Four days is a long ass time to be a small child in the back of an unairconditioned van with a bunch of rotting bananas but it was worth it for being able to more or less run wild through the Ohio woods.

My mother’s family consisted of my grandparents Polly and Bobby, and her younger brother, Bobby.  Bobby has a saint of a wife named Stephanie, and three children.  My sister was very fond of cousins Samantha and Amanda.  

Due to a combination of Ye Olde Misogyny and post-delivery drugs, for about five generations there, the men had been naming all the children, so literally every AMAB person born into the family was named “Robert” and immediately shortened to “Bobby”.  Uncle Bobby very nearly did this to his firstborn, wich would have brought the total number of Bobbies to 8 between the miscellaneous cousins and uncles, when Stephanie put her foot down and named him Jonathan Jackson the second she found out what sex he was.

Cousin JonJack is still my favorite cousin- he has a heart big enough to house every creeping and crawling thing on this planet, and a quiet determination to make things right with the world, even if that means doing something completely batshit insane.

We were camping at a place near West Branch State Park, at what is advertised as a “Luxury Campground next to a Private Lake” but is really an RV collection next to a glorified sump.  It has the extremely redeeming feature of being smack in the middle of Northeast Ohio’s dense hardwood forest, and since we had parents that grew up in the area and had passed a reasonable amount of scouting knowledge onto us, we were turned lose after breakfast and told to return by dark or if anyone got hurt.  This was splendid, as the woods were full of interesting things like nests of day-old rabbits, their hearts visible as they beat against their delicate rib cages, shimmering black rat snakes longer than we were tall, hives of wild bees, intricate in their geometric structure and remarkably patient as long as you didn’t poke them.

The Sump was even better- it had dozens of baby snapping turtles for the catch-and-releasing, catfish twice the size of any cat, a plethora of bugs and worms and crawdads and families of duck and best of all, Arthur, The Swan.

Keep reading

Oh, the poor baby!

pervocracy:

As the revelers feasted in the great hall, Rhior and *throws Boggle dice again* Toalya stood on the balcony above them.

“We’re above them metaphorically, too,” Rhior said.

Toalya pursed her lips.  She was a haughty beauty, with rosy skin, golden curls cascading almost to the floor, a slim and regal figure, and hardly any fleas.  “I love you,” she said softly, “but I can’t be with you.  There are reasons.”

“Hang the reasons!” Rhior exclaimed, seizing her in his arms.

“No,” Toalya protested, beating her fists uselessly against his chest.  In the back of her head, all she could think of was how to make her consent ambiguous enough to cast a pall of creepiness over the whole scene, but still give the author some plausible deniability.  “I mean yes.”

Rhior was already unbuckling his armor.  It sounded like a garbage bag full of tin cans falling down a stairwell, but people in armor always sound like that, so no one looked up.  His manhood sprang free, already as hard as the vanadium steel of a Dwarven smith.

Toalya gave in to her passion, and despite herself, began frantically licking his nostrils.  Rhior moaned in pleasure.  Every red-blooded young man of Bleebheim dreams of a woman who appreciates his nose, and Rhior was no different.  Here in Bleebheim, no one would laugh at a nose fetish or refuse to participate in it.  It wasn’t even thought of as a fetish.  Maybe people who weren’t into noses were persecuted, how about that, huh?  In his turn, Rhior tongued Toalya’s finely carved nares.

Toalya opened her gown, revealing that Wikipedia’s details on the medieval underwear situation are surprisingly scanty.  Rhior liked whatever it was that he saw.

“So what happens now?” Toalya purred.

“Whatever,” Rhior said.  “I already got off on the nose part and this stuff is more of a formality.  I don’t care if we just fade to black now.”

“Alright,” Toalya said, because although her dialogue wasn’t accurate to any particular historical period, the phrase “OK” is too jarringly modern.  “But on exactly one occasion during the book we’re going to have to have sex with truly uncomfortable details about every grunt and squeeze and bodily fluid.”

“Of course,” Rhior replied, and seized her in her arms, unless she was already in his arms, I forget.