"Oh, for a nook and a story-book, With tales both new and old; For a jolly good book whereon to look Is better to me than gold."

Reblogged from allstartstofade  2,671 notes
Advice by a guy who likes football: you should tone it down when it comes to what players you think are hot. That's why guys don't respect girls when it comes to football: they might now a thing or two, but they ruin it by being too vocal about the player's looks.
Anonymous

headsupgirl:

advice by a girl who doesn’t give a fuck: the reason why guys don’t respect girls when it comes to football is because those guys are insecure little pricks who are scared of a vagina with an opinion on something they consider to be strictly masculine and they try to disguise it as respect. ironically enough, we don’t want to be within a one mile radius of guys like you, so don’t worry, you’re safe, your home made girl repellent is working.

i’ve got news for you and the rest of the male chauvinistic pigs out there: a girl equalizing you in football knowledge does not make you less of a man. being a sexist ass with no balls to even show his face does. because a real man acknowledges a woman’s opinion without trying to resort to biology to rule it out. 

YOU should tone it down with the pep talk, buddy. i’m not apologizing for being a football fan who happens to be a straight woman. life is not a video game, you don’t need man points to get to the next level.

Reblogged from jaimelannister  332 notes

Until then I had thought each book spoke of the things, human or divine, that lie outside books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries-old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors. By The Name of the Rose, Umberto Eco