The Execution of Lady Jane Grey by Hippolyte Delaroche, 1833
At the National Gallery, London.
If you see any youtube channel with Night Vale episodes, especially one with ads, please report it. None of the money is going to the crew and it’s completely unfair.
I promised my friend I would write a poem for her.
She laughed and replied, “Nobody wants to read a poem about a girl
who was raped
and didn’t fight back.
Didn’t tell a soul for 6 years
and let the bastards roam free.”
She might be right.
Instead I will write about the girl who grew up with hippie turned conservative Christian parents.
How her home went from free-thinking and pot
to ties and bible verses.
I’ll tell about the time she was 9 and thought she had wings
because she hit the ramp with such speed
her bicycle flipped
And though tears streamed down her cheeks
and a bright blue cast was newly cemented onto her left arm
she whispered to her father:
“I can fly, Daddy, I can soar!”
How when she was 14 and kissed a girl for the first time, she flew again.
If you ask her about it, she’ll give you a wry smile and say, “There was no cherry chapstick, but it was still pretty great.”
How she tried to tell her Mom
who answered by bringing a finger to her lips
and hurriedly whispering
“Never again, mi hija. Hush now. Never again.”
I’ll talk about her great day,
when she won the scholarship essay contest at her school.
After reading it at aloud at the assembly,
she looked up to see her Father leading the standing ovation,
tears shining in his eyes.
She describes this as the best day of her life.
She turned 17,
and her Dad caught her kissing a girl in the rec room.
His hands shook as he threw a suitcase at her
and bellowed the words “abomination” and “sin”.
She would want me to write
that she flipped them the bird,
grabbed her guitar,
and hit the road.
Instead, I will tell the truth.
That she sobbed and begged and pleaded and swore that she would change if she could only have another chance
but the ice king did not melt.
That she calls home every Thursday
just to hear her Mother’s voice sing like wind chimes through the phone.
That she sends a Christmas card every year, signed “Love you more”.
I promised my friend I would write a poem about her, and I think it’s important for you to know
that after 2 men got her drunk and carried her into their cab
she started sleeping with shoes on
chugs vodka from the bottle
and shatters like glass when you try to hold her.
I told her that someone might want to read this,
to know they’re not alone.
That she might
find the sky again.
She laughed, took a pull of whiskey, and replied -
"Tell them not to fly,
because it’s a bitch to make the ground your home again.”
|—||once, she flew. (via baristabitching)|
An array of all my favourite Gordon Ramsay memes
These are the best so far!! XD
omg this is back XD
Season 8 episode 3
The York/Coppergate Helmet is an Anglo-Saxon rounded-helmet with a Latin Christian inscription and zoomorphic decoration along the brass crests. Iron mail, two cheek pieces, and a long nose-guard hang from the skull for protection.
Cast out of iron, with brass highlights.
Made in the 700s in Northumbria for an Anglo-Saxon cavalryman named Oshere.
Found by a mechanical digger inside a well in Coppergate, near York, England.
Currently on view at the Yorkshire Museum.
Cats are literally the cutest nerds ever