boys are just so cute and nice I wanna hold their hands then stab them in their dumb fucking piece of shit faces
DAMMIT THIS IS NOT EVEN MY FUCKING TUMBLR HOW DO I MAKE IT THE GOOD ONE UGH
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.” —Aaron Freeman, You Want A Physicist To Speak at your Funeral (via heymrblue)
this fucking rocked me. wow.
ten bucks says that ugly weird annoying girl was born with that permanent stink eye.
i saw someone point at my office and say something about 10 dollars. why did I worry that he was saying i was some combination of annoying, weird, ugly, or had permanent stink eye?
This is making me so very uncomfortable but I can’t stop watching.
The new torchwood episodes are f****** insane
are u still dead? no, u have come back. i thought u were sorta dead. anyway, u are gone now. i write in my book and i cry. i go to u for comfort but u are not u. u are him and u start to cry. i meet a rock star. he keeps touching me. i say i am into the avant garde and then i’ve lost him. i say i am a video artist, poet and artist but he already knows i’m an artist because i draw in my book the hwole time he performs. first it’s a small audience, then it is only me sitting on a lawnchair. he is playing with a baby. little kids come to talk to me about him. they say be careful, he is sort of dangerous.
he doesnt ask for my number. i am looking for black paint so i can write in it, are u still dead?
earl, are u dead yet? u have to come back. i thought u were as dead as an orange.
please write me and cry for my book.
i am sorta dead as a lawnchair. the avante garde already knows i am an orange.
i am gone now. i am in my black paint. i cry for black paint so i cry. please write that i am sorta as dead as an orange.
i am on a lawn chair and an officer lead mrs. one fast move. he made me cry. i’ve lost him. i’m not ready to be smacked forward.
it is june 1970 and i am 100% of u know. i am a rambling rooster. i yield to signs and i still do please. i hate self-propelled carriages. a pearlish half moon. domestic blitz is still unglazed and hazel.u were space echoes when u were touching me. the lesson of her is still in wool. u thought about your combat bomb. if u are still her his hands are still beautiful. i say i am a book and i am dead. u were torqouise with a bulletin chin. welcome to 2000. u have 7 tongues; come with me. after i was a nice kleenex i was the atomic publisher harriet which may sound like an orange blossom special. more black stripes were as crowd-pleasing as your chin.” —someone submitted this to the cutup machine as a source
WHERE IS YOR GOD NOW