omg I’m at work and a group of like 13 year old girls come in and order their lattes or whatever and one girl is like can you Instagram this with all our names on it? and her friend is like ya totally and so I may have put a q in the middle of all of their names so they got their coffee and were like “omg what the hell we can’t take a picture of this” Im literally the worst person ever
im still laughing about this they were so mad omg
if tumblr was bought out for $1.1B and there are 60 million blogs that means each blog is worth $18.3
my blog is worth more than i am
Well actually it would cost anywhere between $5,000 - $250,000 to hire an assassin to kill you so chin up hun, you are worth so much more than $18.30
first the body parts comparison now the assassins thank you tumblr
if the tardis is infinite with infinite rooms then maybe we’re all in the tardis and don’t even know it
MAYBE OUR ENTIRE UNIVERSE IS ONE ROOM IN THE TARDIS
maybe the TARDIS is a metaphor for the universe
AsylumWaiting Room of the Big Three.
it’s funny because it looks like the sherlock fandom are sane here
Sherlock bustled about the kitchen, throwing a cupboard door open and pushing aside a box of nicotine patches to retrieve two mismatched mugs. A kettle whistled plaintively in the background, like it had been trying to draw attention to itself for a while now. Setting the mugs aside, Sherlock absently pulled the kettle off the stove, poured tea into the two mugs, and carried them into the living room.
Doctor Who was sprawled over the same chair it had collapsed into last night, when it had appeared at the door muttering inanely about lost regenerations and knackered navigations systems. It made a whining noise as Sherlock tucked the shock blanket it had thrown off in the night back around its shoulders.
Supernatural was in similar straits, curled up on the floor with a throw pillow and a tattered trench coat around its shoulders and alternating between sobbing and muttering about domesticity potential.
A thudding on the stairs indicated the ruckus had finally awoke Merlin, who poked its head into the room, hair sticking up at all angels as it tied its scarf around its neck. Blinking blearily at the mess, it seemed to realize what had occurred when it picked up a discarded bow-tie from the floor, holding it between forefinger and thumb, “Is it that time already?”
“It was bad this year,” Sherlock whispered, trying not to exacerbate the already fragile fandoms under its care.
“I remember what that was like,” Merlin muttered, running a hand through its hair and pulling a cape off the nearby coat rack, “I’ll go to the store. We’re out of milk again. May as well pick up some fish fingers, custard, and salt.”
Supernatural gurgled something quietly.
“No, I won’t forget the pie.”