WHAT DO YOU MEAN I HAVE ALREADY LEFT KUDOS HERE? WHY ISN’T THERE A BUTTON WHICH SAYS, “LEAVE MORE KUDOS HERE” AND THEN YOUR NAME IN THE KUDOS LIST SLOWLY STARTS TURNING ALL THE COLOURS OF THE RAINBOW WITH THE MORE KUDOS YOU LEAVE, AND THEN LITTLE HEARTS AND FLOWERS AND BALLOONS AND STREAMERS START APPEARING ROUND YOUR NAME, AND THEN, AND ONLY THEN, WILL THIS BE A TRUE REPRESENTATION OF HOW MUCH I LOVE YOUR FIC.
Is it political if I tell you that if we burn coal, you’re going to warm the atmosphere? Or is that a statement of fact that you’ve made political? It’s a scientific statement. The fact that there are elements of society that have made it political, that’s a whole other thing. — Neil deGrasse Tyson (via socio-logic)
(Source: alwaysmoneyinthebnanastand, via wilwheaton)
For everyone whose team has been eliminated:
stumblingoverchaos asked: Happy weekend! Notfic, pretty please? How 'bout Sid can temporarily swap bodies with people, altho he knows it's not polite and also eww. But he can't control it when he's injured and just keeps taking over different guys on the team, confusing ALL.
sid wakes up groggy, but without a sore jaw.
that’s the first thing that tips him off — he should still be sore and aching and absolutely miserable, but he isn’t. after a few seconds, he probes around his mouth, but there’s no missing teeth, no massive lacerations.
"shit," sid says, and when he does, it sounds like nealer. "shit, shit, shit."
paulie opens his door easily, smiling in a way that makes sid feel awkward, like he’s intruding on something private. when paul says, still smiling warmly, “not like you to knock, james,” sid can’t help wincing.
"it isn’t james," he says, feeling his shoulders rise up around his ears. "uh. it’s sid."
paul blinks, but true to form, lets sid in. “is this the —” he pauses, waving one hand around as if to express occasional body-switching, “— the thing?”
"yeah, the thing," sid agrees, nodding at paul. "can i maybe use your cell phone?" his stomach growls, and he says quickly, "oh, and food."
"sure thing," paul says, leading the way to the kitchen. "i bet you’re ready for solids, huh?"
"you have no idea," sid says meaningfully. he bangs his shin on paulie’s barstools, but manages to figure out nealer’s stupidly long legs in time, sitting at the counter and taking paul’s phone when he offers it.
he calls his own phone first, waiting at the counter while paul does something with eggs. when nealer finally picks up, mumbling groggily, it sends the same shock through sid that happens every time he hears someone else talking in his voice. “‘ello?”
"james, this is sid. we’ve switched bodies," sid says quickly, before nealer can freak out.
"fuck," nealer says, and then, "ow, ow, motherfuck, is this the jaw thing? cause this is shit."
"yeah, about that," sid sighs, leaning his elbows on the counter. "i have a list on my bedside table of doctor shit and stuff, just in case, but like — take the vicodin sparingly, it’ll fuck you up, and don’t eat solids. call me — well, i guess, you, technically — or g if you have questions."
"g? really?" james says, and hearing him do his standard little brother thing is seriously bizarre when it’s in sid’s slightly slurred voice.
"fuck off, lazy," sid retorts, just as paulie slides a mug of coffee across the countertop. "oh, thanks paul."
"you’re with paulie? seriously? what the fuck man?" nealer starts, and sid takes a sip of coffee. nealer likes his coffee sweeter than sid, but it’s fine for right now.
"where else am i going to get food? your house is a tomb," sid tells him, and paul laughs even as nealer protests. "anyways, call if you have questions, and i promise i’ll come by to switch back in a few hours, okay?"
nealer’s still complaining about sid seeing paulie even as sid hangs up, and paul passes sid a plate of eggs. “eat up captain,” paul says, quirking his mouth up as sid nods his thanks.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from reading fanfiction, it’s that clear communication will save you at least three chapters of angst.
I don’t think there is any truth. Only points of view. — Allen Ginsberg, an American poet and a leader of the Beat Generation in the 1950s (via naeive)
from The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman