AshFay

Graduate Student
Bookworm
Overall Nerd


Ask me anything  
Reblogged from mikemcc

inhayleing:

sushiandpie:

Reblog if you want your followers to put the Pokémon they think Best Represents you into your ask box.

image

yes pls that would mak mi dei 🍤

(Source: mikemcc, via stella-marie)

Reblogged from bb-forever

fiftyshadesofdebauchery:

kvotheunkvothe:

Animal fun fact: Chinchillas can’t get wet. Their fur retains too much water and will start to grow mold. So they bathe by rolling around in dust.

Chinchilla fun fact: Chinchillas have around 20 hairs per follicle; unlike humans who have 2-3 hairs per follicle. Because their fur is so dense, they cannot get fleas or other parasites. The bugs will suffocate in their fur.

Chinchilla fun fact: Petting one of those awesome little guys feels like touching a motherfucking cloud.

Chinchilla fun fact: Their newborn babies are like little pieces of fluffy popcorn. You could easily just toss a handful in your mouth.

Chinchilla fun fact: Don’t toss a handful into your mouth.

(Source: bb-forever, via lauriehalseanderson)

Reblogged from babyintrenchcoat
Reblogged from umhi-im-alexis
  • Men: If Orange is the New Black is so good with representation, why are all the men horrible?
  • Women: They're not all horrible. Bennett's nice. What more do you want?
  • Men: But he's clueless and irresponsible! And that's just ONE guy! How can you give me ONE decent male character in a slew of diverse female characters and call THAT representation?
  • Women:
  • Women:
  • Women:
  • Women:
  • Women:
  • Women:
  • Women: ...must be tough.
Reblogged from gallifreyanconsultingdetective

Anonymous said: imagine a dragon who hoarded librarians and every so often knights come to rescue them and the librarians get very upset because the dragon is quiet and reshelves everything neatly and the knights are Very Annoying

sweaterkittensahoy:

gallifreyanconsultingdetective:

can I just

LOOKIT THE DRAGON READING A BOOK

Reblogged from mahnhattan
Reblogged from skankplissken

pyxis-nautica:

stonecoldstunning:

I NEVER KNEW THE REASON THE NEPHEWS WERE LEFT WITH SCROOGE WAS BECAUSE DONALD HAD TO LITERALLY GO OFF WITH THE NAVY LIKE

I THOUGHT THE SAILOR GET UP WAS FOR SHOW IT DIDN’T OCCUR TO ME THAT DONALD WAS WITH THE US ARMED FORCES 

#thank you donald for keeping our country safe

(Source: skankplissken, via stella-marie)

Reblogged from nympheline

nympheline:
This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.
I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.
The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.
"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"
Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.
Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.
I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.
But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.
"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.
"No, I’m good," I said.
"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.
Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—
“Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.
Reader, I bought them all.

nympheline:

This is my favourite bookstore and bookseller in the world. Bar none.

I used to get to Seattle every six months or so, and whenever I visited I always made it a priority to stop in BLMF and ask its keeper what he’d been reading lately. He possessed an inexhaustible memory, a comfortable lack of snobbery, and impeccable taste. The first book he recommended to me, upon listening gravely to my litany of at-the-moment authors (Barbara Kingsolver, James Clavell, Maeve Binchy, Neil Gaiman, Charles DeLint, Anthony Bourdain) was Tipping the Velvet. He also later landed me with Geek Love, Anno Dracula, half the Aubreyad, and more modern Literature-with-a-capital-L than I could carry home.

The next-to-last time I dropped in, I asked if he had any P. G. Wodehouse.

"I have zero Wodehouse," he said, "and here’s why…"

Turned out that some fiend had taken to creeping in every month or so expressly to inquire of any Wodehouse and, once led to the volumes, to buy it all. ALL. Didn’t matter the condition, the edition, or whether he had another just like it in his possession; the villain bought every single P. G. Wodehouse in stock, every single time.

Was he a fan more comprehensive, more truly fanatical than any other I’d heard of, let alone known? Was he virulently anti-Wodehouse, only purchasing the books to keep their wry poison from infecting the impressionable masses? The world may never know.

I didn’t get any Wodehouse then, and I didn’t really feel the lack. I found plenty of other treasures that trip. But here’s one reason why BLMF and its proprietor are my favourite of their kind: that was two years ago, you see. Maybe three. In all that interim, I never planted foot in that bookshop. Never called. Never wrote. And I’m one face out of hundreds of thousands, dear reader; one reader he saw twice a year for three years, then not again for another three.

But I walked in the shop last Friday. Nodded hello.

"Can I help you find anything?" he asked, lifting his head from the phone.

"No, I’m good," I said.

"Wait—hold on a second." He set the phone down, walked ‘round the towers of books balanced precariously on the desk, on the floor, and atop other, only slightly less precarious towers. He jerked his head conspiratorially toward the far end of the shop, led me carefully to a shelf way in the back, removed a tattered stack of mass market paperbacks and motioned me closer to see what they’d been hiding.

Fifteen pristine Wodehouses: crisp, heavy, and—

Hardcover,” he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

Reader, I bought them all.

(via stella-marie)

Reblogged from oxidoreductase
eccecorinna:

hemipelagicdredger:

mermaidskey:

mermaidskey:

oxidoreductase:

Lavoisier is having none of your shit.

Heeeey so fun fact: the woman in that painting is Lavoisier’s wife, Marie-Anne Pierrette Paulze, who not only acted as Lavoisier’s lab assistant but also translated English and Latin texts into French so he could read them. But she didn’t just translate, she pointed out errors in the chemistry in some of the texts. Her observations of these errors convinced Lavoisier to study combustion, which led to his discovery of oxygen. She was also critical to the publication of Lavoisier’s Elementary Treatise on Chemistry in 1789. She kept strict records of every experiment they conducted together and drew detailed diagrams of all their equipment. She also threw amazing parties and invited all the brightest minds in science so her husband could pick their brains. After Lavoisier was guillotined she secured all of his notebooks and equipment for posterity.
In short: NOBODY KICKS MADAME LAVOISIER OUT OF THE LAB.

Also, a side note: My historian husband-to-be pointed some things out to me about this painting. Notice that Madame Lavoisier is looking at the viewer, and all the light is on her, while Lavoisier himself is physically smaller than her, in shadow, and looking up to her in reverence. This isn’t a candid photograph- all of these choices are deliberate. The painting isn’t of Lavoisier- Madame Lavoisier is meant to be the central subject. 
I can just imagine Lavoisier telling all his colleagues that his wife is really the one with all the clever ideas, and them patting him on the back and telling him he’s sweet for saying so.

more like


Rebloggin’ for the fantastic commentary and the edit :)

eccecorinna:

hemipelagicdredger:

mermaidskey:

mermaidskey:

oxidoreductase:

Lavoisier is having none of your shit.

Heeeey so fun fact: the woman in that painting is Lavoisier’s wife, Marie-Anne Pierrette Paulze, who not only acted as Lavoisier’s lab assistant but also translated English and Latin texts into French so he could read them. But she didn’t just translate, she pointed out errors in the chemistry in some of the texts. Her observations of these errors convinced Lavoisier to study combustion, which led to his discovery of oxygen. She was also critical to the publication of Lavoisier’s Elementary Treatise on Chemistry in 1789. She kept strict records of every experiment they conducted together and drew detailed diagrams of all their equipment. She also threw amazing parties and invited all the brightest minds in science so her husband could pick their brains. After Lavoisier was guillotined she secured all of his notebooks and equipment for posterity.

In short: NOBODY KICKS MADAME LAVOISIER OUT OF THE LAB.

Also, a side note: My historian husband-to-be pointed some things out to me about this painting. Notice that Madame Lavoisier is looking at the viewer, and all the light is on her, while Lavoisier himself is physically smaller than her, in shadow, and looking up to her in reverence. This isn’t a candid photograph- all of these choices are deliberate. The painting isn’t of Lavoisier- Madame Lavoisier is meant to be the central subject. 

I can just imagine Lavoisier telling all his colleagues that his wife is really the one with all the clever ideas, and them patting him on the back and telling him he’s sweet for saying so.

more like

image

Rebloggin’ for the fantastic commentary and the edit :)

(via ninquelen)

Reblogged from wtf-fun-factss
wtf-fun-factss:

Secret swimming pool in the mojave desert - WTF fun facts

wtf-fun-factss:

Secret swimming pool in the mojave desert - WTF fun facts

Reblogged from mishasteaparty

deardarkness:

Shall we play a game?

The idea of Natasha watching classic 80s kids movies amuses me greatly much more than the idea of Steve watching them.

(Source: mishasteaparty, via stella-marie)

Reblogged from bewilderedapprehension
Anxiety is not rude. Depression is not selfish. Schizophrenia is not wrong. Eating disorders are not a choice. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is not crazy. Mental illness isn’t self-centred, anymore than cancer is self-centred. It’s a medical illness. (via kanyelifevest)

(Source: bewilderedapprehension, via stella-marie)