Archives for the Date December 8th, 2018

embyrr922: pyrrhiccomedy: ifshehadwings: ovaadosedonconfidence: Intuition is real. Vibes are…





Intuition is real. Vibes are real. Energy doesn’t lie. Tune in.

This is actually called thin slicing. Your brain recognizes patterns from very small “slices” of information by comparing them to things you have experienced before. This all happens very quickly on a subconscious level without our conscious mind being involved. So intuition is actually really fast pattern recognition, and it can be very accurate. So yeah, if you have a gut feeling that a person or situation is not good, get the hell out. Your brain knows what’s up. 

When I was young – because I’ve always been a big skeptical pain in the ass – I thought that when people were talking about interpersonal “energy,” they were on some Gay Ass Shit.

Years later, after spending hundreds of hours reading studies about intuition and neuroscience and pattern recognition and the processing power of the subconscious mind, I realized that that kind of talk – “she has such good energy,” “you need to read the energy of the room,” “I just got some really bad energy off of that guy” – is a convenient shorthand for the lightning-fast, weirdly-accurate, real-as-fuck subconscious processing of the probability of positive or negative social outcomes likely to result from hundreds or thousands of variables. That “energy” isn’t a tangible thing floating around in the air. It’s your brain updating you constantly with information about your situation. Listen to it. Especially if it’s telling you to be nervous or scared. Your brain is very good at recognizing danger. Let the enormous processing power of your subconscious mind protect you. It’s better at spotting patterns than you are. 

“Bad energy” isn’t some hippie shit. It’s your brain setting off a claxon because it knows something’s not right.

Thin slicing is wonderfully helpful, but be aware that if it’s doing its pattern recognition from bad sources, you need to actively override it. We’re raised in a racist society, inundated with racist media, and bombarded with subtly (or unsubtly) racist advice. Thin slicing can save your life, but it’s also the cause behind the unconscious elements of racism (and misogyny/ableism/antisemitism/islamophobia/etc.) that we all suffer from

Trust your instincts, but if your instincts tell you something that seems prejudicial, double check their work.

batsonthebrain: sarazanmai:it took me like 3 minutes to process…



it took me like 3 minutes to process the fact that this wasnt cgi 

Booking my flight to Tokyo

everythingfox: Me: Is trying to sleep My brain:

Me: Is trying to sleep
My brain:









Dear WrittenThroughTime….you give so much to this fandom.  I hope in some small way my story makes you smile, laugh and fall in love with Jamie and Claire all over again in a Modern World.


“Dammit!  Oh GOD.  Oh.  Oh

She heard the crash from her perch on the fire escape.  And then the swearing. And underlying it all was
the pain.  Claire had been sitting out on
her fire escape, watching the sun go down in an orange blaze.  Setting aside her steaming hot tea, she crept
down the iron stairs slowly, her big woolen blanket still wrapped around
her.  It was a deep autumn night in
Edinburgh, and the chill in the air was sharp.
She didn’t want to appear like a weirdo, but the pain in his voice was
too much to ignore.  

And when she saw him, she reacted without thinking. Dropping
the blanket, she crawled through his open window, hand outstretched and voice
soothing.  “Hi there.  I’m Claire.
I live upstairs.  I heard the
crash. Are you okay?”  He looked at her,
eyes wild, short of breath and clutching his right arm.  A clearly dislocated shoulder.  “I’m a nurse.
Let me help you.”  

He never said a word, just nodded at her and allowed her to
lead him over to the coffee table.  She
sat him down gently and looked him in the eye.
“Brace yourself.  It will
hurt.  Just…just don’t fight me, okay?  I need to get the arm in the correct
position, and then I’m going to put your shoulder joint back in place.”  He nodded again, and took a deep breath.  She could see in his eyes when he was ready
for her. She nodded back at him, their silent communication forged.  Slipping her hand into his, she concentrated
on what she was doing until she felt the joint slide home.

“A Dhia.” he breathed.
He looked at her with surprise, relief, and nothing short of
admiration.  She smiled.  


“Aye. Thank ye!”

She looked around.  “I
need to make you a sling.  Do you have a
scarf, maybe?”  

“Maybe in the hall closet,” he said, but when he stood up,
he swayed.

“Woah!”  Claire placed
her hands on his waist to steady him.  “It’s
the pain.  You should sit.”  He turned slightly and that’s when Claire
noticed his belt. “Wait!”  He cocked an
eyebrow.  “Your belt.  It will do nicely.” And before she realized
what she was doing, she undid his belt buckle, slid it free of his jeans and
used it to immobilize his arm.  “It’s
just for tonight.  Sleep carefully,
perhaps with a pillow under your shoulder. Tomorrow I’ll bring you a proper
sling from the hospital.”  She finished
her ministrations, marched to the bathroom hoping to find some type of pain
medicine or anti-inflammatory in the sink cabinet and then strode through to
the kitchen to get him a glass of water.
She righted the bar stool he obviously tripped over, wrote her mobile
number on a piece of paper and told him to call her if the pain became too

And crawling through the window again she gave him one last
wave, picked up her blanket and mounted the rusty stairs.  It was only after she was back in her flat
coming down after her healing adrenaline rush that it hit her.  How very firm his waist was.  How tall, and big. With a myriad of red in
his longish hair.  Hair that curled just
at the nape.  And it registered that when
she finally looked him in the eye, he’d had a small smirk pulling at his lips.
Because she was unbuckling his belt….and she felt the heat of embarrassment
flood her face.  Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, Claire! You need to not be so bold!

Downstairs, rubbing the torn bit of paper between his fingers
like a rosary bead, Jamie felt as if he’d been hit by a lorry.  Oh, his shoulder felt okay.  It hurt, but it was manageable.  No, the lorry that hit him had curly black
hair, a no-nonsense manner and a good touch. Not to mention the last image he had
of her leaving his flat.  That sweet,
round arse disappearing up the fire escape.

Next Chapter

Reblogging this as it is the perfect Xmas fan fic

My favorite ❤️

Escape is my happy place, I love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love love it, thank you @notevenjokingfic for giving me this gift.

Just fell down the rabbit hole, err, I mean fire escape and re-read this absolute jewel of a masterpiece.

Just discovering this. I love it ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

copperbadge: digitaldiscipline: unseenphil: digitaldiscipline: … and somehow, today, I still…





… and somehow, today, I still managed to get followed by another pornbot.

The pornbots have now been trained to tag their stuff with #sfw, which somehow causes the algorithm porn-hunter bots to go “Oh, well, that’s fine, we don’t need to look at these pictures” 

We live in the dumbest robot wars.

#notarobot #notabot #notawar #hailcyberdynesystems #hailskynet

Sounds like someone should hire the guy building the pornbots to work at tumblr



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