Video 23 Jul 15,945 notes

(Source: instagram.com)

Video 23 Jul 143,194 notes

(Source: kaliskadyami)

Text 23 Jul 217 notes

gamerphonzy said: So... what is headboob, anatomically speaking?

crispysnakes:

It’s the muscles surrounding the jaws.  The shape of the head is determined by the shape of the skull.  

Here’s a boa:

Here’s a boa skull.  Note the structure of the jaws, particularly the back end where sit the the two joints that control the gape of the snake (snakes have five mobile and one immobile joint within their skulls).  See the boxy, rounded shape those two joints make?

Here are the two overlaid:

Now imagine the muscles needed to control those joints.  Depending on the species/size of the snake and the prey they feed on, they’ll need more or less muscle mass to operate their jaws.  

See those big fleshy white things in the corners of the mouth?  That’s all muscle that, when the mouth is closed, occupies the space in the skull that people like to squish.  

That, is headboob.  

Video 23 Jul 81,148 notes

toki-yo-tomare:

barbeauxbot:

unsuccessfulmetalbenders:

was this movie even real

this movie is called Kung Fu Hustle and you owe it to yourself to watch it

(Source: bunchesopunches)

Video 23 Jul 86 notes

reptiliaherps:

doubledragonduo:

Showin off dem sexy azz legs

I’m not a model the camera just went off and it came out this way

Video 23 Jul 149 notes

andthentherewasarat:

red tegu female for earthandanimals 

Photo 23 Jul 136 notes yeahwriters:

livianelson:

Crosswalk, Catwalk
I had a new outfit. I had beautiful new outfit. And as I approached the crosswalk, I knew: this was my moment. I felt the onlookers settling into their places on either side of the street. The cross traffic light flicked from green to yellow and I took a deep breath, apprehensive as a runway model at her first show.
On Sunday Grandmother, who otherwise usually forgot me, took a car into town to “have a day” with me. I thought that her visit was over when she folded her napkin at the French brunch place on the Bowery, but as the handsome waiters whisked away our saucers and butter dishes and stemmed juice glasses, she looked me over and said, “I believe we need a visit to the dressmaker.”
It seemed that Grandmother had momentarily forgotten that one now “shopped” instead of having garments made to fit, but nonetheless her driver swept us around to the big B department stores and called ahead to book fitting rooms. There, attractive middle aged stylists (were they not really just floor saleswomen?) brought hanger after hanger of designer trousers and blouses and cocktail dresses. Grandmother would never buy anything piecemeal, and therefore everything I liked had to be completed with an “outfit”, down to the clutch and shoes. The women clucked and fussed and complimented my figure—”slender in all the right places!”—and asked me to turn this way and that on a dais before a trifold mirror. All the while Grandmother sat on a chaise or a sofa, sipping her Earl Grey and smirking.
The payment exchange was discreet: with a flick of her wrist Grandmother handed off her card, then acted as though nothing had happened until the receipt was returned on a silver tray. She signed with another wrist flick, eyes hooded and mouth tensed, as if she was doing something distasteful. We only purchased about five percent of what I tried on, but I estimated that she spent about 3 times what I paid in rent. I briefly considered whether I could sell the garments, or return them, to help ebb the cost of said rent. But no—I was a young woman, struggling in New York City; I needed—no, I deserved—some proper, fashionable clothes.
They were delivered a few days later, after some slight tailoring, by a foreign man who helped me make room in my pathetic armoire. My room had no proper closet.
I decided that the next day I would wear the simple silk dress and one of the 2 killer pairs of shoes. Mindy at work had a husband in finance and she always dressed to the nines; I always felt like I’d just fallen out of the Goodwill when I was standing next to her. And then there was beautiful Viola from Bushwick, who was closer to my age and likely did shop at the Goodwill. She wore such tattered, mismatched, ratty clothes that they passed as fashionable and hid her income level (which must have been very low, if it was analogous to mine). Next to her I seemed frumpy, like someone who shopped at the Banana Republic outlet. Well, this outfit would show them. I topped it off with my big new hat.
And now here I was, waiting to cross 5th Avenue, finally feeling like one of those Manhattan sidewalk women whose photo could get snapped for a fashion blog at any moment. They were the women of establishment scenes in movies about New York, who worked in tall towers at fashion houses and magazines, whose apartments were made of glass and granite and had skyline views. They were models and they dated models and they only got bottle service. I wasn’t there yet, but finally, at least, I was dressed the part.
The avenue light turned red, and the crosswalk flicked to white. I began.
I could feel the eyes on me, the men hanging on the back of the garbage truck, the sunglassed woman trying to hail a cab, the teenage girls in cutoffs who were crossing the other way, the commuters in the bike lane, the homeless man leaning against the scaffolding—they were all looking at me! Me! Me!
Then, all at once, the buttery bottom of my new shoe slid forward on the slick white stripe of crosswalk paint, and I collapsed into a pile of silk and leather and street grime, right in the middle of 5th Avenue.

I’ve started writing stories on my phone while I walk to the subway in the morning. Here’s today’s. Haha can you tell I’ve been reading a lot of Edith Wharton?

yeahwriters:

livianelson:

Crosswalk, Catwalk

I had a new outfit. I had beautiful new outfit. And as I approached the crosswalk, I knew: this was my moment. I felt the onlookers settling into their places on either side of the street. The cross traffic light flicked from green to yellow and I took a deep breath, apprehensive as a runway model at her first show.

On Sunday Grandmother, who otherwise usually forgot me, took a car into town to “have a day” with me. I thought that her visit was over when she folded her napkin at the French brunch place on the Bowery, but as the handsome waiters whisked away our saucers and butter dishes and stemmed juice glasses, she looked me over and said, “I believe we need a visit to the dressmaker.”

It seemed that Grandmother had momentarily forgotten that one now “shopped” instead of having garments made to fit, but nonetheless her driver swept us around to the big B department stores and called ahead to book fitting rooms. There, attractive middle aged stylists (were they not really just floor saleswomen?) brought hanger after hanger of designer trousers and blouses and cocktail dresses. Grandmother would never buy anything piecemeal, and therefore everything I liked had to be completed with an “outfit”, down to the clutch and shoes. The women clucked and fussed and complimented my figure—”slender in all the right places!”—and asked me to turn this way and that on a dais before a trifold mirror. All the while Grandmother sat on a chaise or a sofa, sipping her Earl Grey and smirking.

The payment exchange was discreet: with a flick of her wrist Grandmother handed off her card, then acted as though nothing had happened until the receipt was returned on a silver tray. She signed with another wrist flick, eyes hooded and mouth tensed, as if she was doing something distasteful. We only purchased about five percent of what I tried on, but I estimated that she spent about 3 times what I paid in rent. I briefly considered whether I could sell the garments, or return them, to help ebb the cost of said rent. But no—I was a young woman, struggling in New York City; I needed—no, I deserved—some proper, fashionable clothes.

They were delivered a few days later, after some slight tailoring, by a foreign man who helped me make room in my pathetic armoire. My room had no proper closet.

I decided that the next day I would wear the simple silk dress and one of the 2 killer pairs of shoes. Mindy at work had a husband in finance and she always dressed to the nines; I always felt like I’d just fallen out of the Goodwill when I was standing next to her. And then there was beautiful Viola from Bushwick, who was closer to my age and likely did shop at the Goodwill. She wore such tattered, mismatched, ratty clothes that they passed as fashionable and hid her income level (which must have been very low, if it was analogous to mine). Next to her I seemed frumpy, like someone who shopped at the Banana Republic outlet. Well, this outfit would show them. I topped it off with my big new hat.

And now here I was, waiting to cross 5th Avenue, finally feeling like one of those Manhattan sidewalk women whose photo could get snapped for a fashion blog at any moment. They were the women of establishment scenes in movies about New York, who worked in tall towers at fashion houses and magazines, whose apartments were made of glass and granite and had skyline views. They were models and they dated models and they only got bottle service. I wasn’t there yet, but finally, at least, I was dressed the part.

The avenue light turned red, and the crosswalk flicked to white. I began.

I could feel the eyes on me, the men hanging on the back of the garbage truck, the sunglassed woman trying to hail a cab, the teenage girls in cutoffs who were crossing the other way, the commuters in the bike lane, the homeless man leaning against the scaffolding—they were all looking at me! Me! Me!

Then, all at once, the buttery bottom of my new shoe slid forward on the slick white stripe of crosswalk paint, and I collapsed into a pile of silk and leather and street grime, right in the middle of 5th Avenue.

I’ve started writing stories on my phone while I walk to the subway in the morning. Here’s today’s. Haha can you tell I’ve been reading a lot of Edith Wharton?

Quote 23 Jul 6,149 notes
A long time ago I learned not to explain things to people. It misleads them into thinking they’re entitled to know everything I do.
— Lisa Kleypas, Dreaming of You (via larmoyante)
Text 23 Jul 285,031 notes

punkbruh:

Shout out to everyone dating their crush. You put yourself out there and look at you now. Wow. Proud of you.

Photo 23 Jul 79,212 notes booksandwildthings:

swagbat:

how game of thrones should end

#khal drogo just #descends from the heavens #on a flaming stallion #punches everyone in the face #and sits his fine dothraki ass down on the iron throne #until daenerys shows up #then he stands #dusts the seat off a bit #and steps aside for his khalessi

booksandwildthings:

swagbat:

how game of thrones should end

#khal drogo just #descends from the heavens #on a flaming stallion #punches everyone in the face #and sits his fine dothraki ass down on the iron throne #until daenerys shows up #then he stands #dusts the seat off a bit #and steps aside for his khalessi

Text 23 Jul 299,924 notes

bearfluff:

i can’t wait until october when there’s no sun outside and everything is cute colors and it’s cold and there are terrible horror movies on tv, my power is at its peak then

(Source: bearzerky)

Photo 23 Jul 45,802 notes

(Source: unclefather)

Video 23 Jul 225,846 notes

theking-and-hislionheart:

kelseytvs:

revoltingnaughtynewsie:

animalbks:

tony-wiseau:

If you don’t like Elizabeth Swann you’re wrong.

Keira Knightley was 17 there

REALLY?!

Yup Keira was 16/17 for the filming of the first Pirates movie and here I am at 20, and all I’ve done today is study chemistry, eat cookies and cry a lot.

i stopped loving her when shE BURNT TH FUCKING RUM

(Source: )

Quote 23 Jul 3,520 notes
I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.
— Maya Angelou (via boomboomboomshakalaka)
Text 23 Jul 209,870 notes

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