karenhealey:

ink-splotch:

There comes a point where Susan, who was the older girl, is lost to Narnia because she becomes interested in lipstick. She’s become irreligious basically because she found sex. I have a big problem with that.” - JK Rowling

Can we talk about Susan’s fabulous adventures after Narnia? The ones where she wears nylons and elegant blouses when she wants to, and short skirts and bright lipstick when she wants to, and hiking boots and tough jeans and big men’s plaid shirts when she feels like backpacking out into the mountains and remembering what it was to be lost in a world full of terrific beauty— I know her siblings say she stops talking about it, that Susan walks away from the memories of Narnia, but I don’t think she ever really forgot.

I want to read about Susan finishing out boarding school as a grown queen reigning from a teenaged girl’s body. School bullies and peer pressure from children and teachers who treat you like you’re less than sentient wouldn’t have the same impact. C’mon, Susan of the Horn, Susan who bested the DLF at archery, and rode a lion, and won wars, sitting in a school uniform with her eyebrows rising higher and higher as some old goon at the front of the room slams his fist on the lectern. 

Susan living through WW2, huddling with her siblings, a young adult (again), a fighting queen and champion marksman kept from the action, until she finally storms out against screaming parents’ wishes and volunteers as a nurse on the front. She keeps a knife or two hidden under her clothes because when it comes down to it, they called her Gentle, but sometimes loving means fighting for what you care for. 

She’ll apply to a women’s college on the East Coast, because she fell in love with America when her parents took her there before the war. She goes in majoring in Literature (her ability to decipher High Diction in historical texts is uncanny), but checks out every book she can on history, philosophy, political science. She sneaks into the boys’ school across town and borrows their books too. She was once responsible for a kingdom, roads and taxes and widows and crops and war. She grew from child to woman with that mantle of duty wrapped around her shoulders. Now, tossed here on this mundane land, forever forbidden from her true kingdom, Susan finds that she can give up Narnia but she cannot give up that responsibility. She looks around and thinks I could do this better.

I want Susan sneaking out to drink at pubs with the girls, her friends giggling at the boys checking them out from across the way, until Susan walks over (with her nylons, with her lipstick, with her sovereignty written out in whatever language she damn well pleases) and beats them all at pool. Susan studying for tests and bemoaning Aristotle and trading a boy with freckles all over his nose shooting lessons so that he will teach her calculus. Susan kissing boys and writing home to Lucy and kissing girls and helping smuggle birth control to the ladies in her dorm because Susan Pevensie is a queen and she understands the right of a woman to rule over her own body. 

Susan losing them all to a train crash, Edmund and Peter and Lucy, Jill and Eustace, and Lucy and Lucy and Lucy, who Susan’s always felt the most responsible for. Because this is a girl who breathes responsibility, the little mother to her three siblings until a wardrobe whisked them away and she became High Queen to a whole land, ruled it for more than a decade, then came back centuries later as a legend. What it must do to you, to be a legend in the body of a young girl, to have that weight on your shoulders and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. What is must do to you, to be left alone to decide whether to bury your family in separate ceremonies, or all at once, the same way they died, all at once and without you. What it must do to you, to stand there in black, with your nylons, and your lipstick, and feel responsible for these people who you will never be able to explain yourself to and who you can never save. 

Maybe she dreams sometimes they made it back to Narnia after all. Peter is a king again. Lucy walks with Aslan and all the dryads dance. Maybe Susan dreams that she went with them— the train jerks, a bright light, a roar calling you home. 

Maybe she doesn’t. 

Susan grows older and grows up. Sometimes she hears Lucy’s horrified voice in her head, “Nylons? Lipstick, Susan? Who wants to grow up?”  and Susan thinks, “Well you never did, Luce.” Susan finishes her degree, stays in America (England looks too much like Narnia, too much like her siblings, and too little, all at once). She starts writing for the local paper under the pseudonym Frank Tumnus, because she wants to write about politics and social policy and be listened to, because the name would have made Edmund laugh. 

She writes as Susan Pevensie, too, about nylons and lipstick, how to give a winning smiles and throw parties, because she knows there is a kind of power there and she respects it. She won wars with war sometimes, in Narnia, but sometimes she stopped them before they began.

Peter had always looked disapprovingly on the care with which Susan applied her makeup back home in England, called it vanity. And even then, Susan would smile at him, say “I use what weapons I have at hand,” and not explain any more than that. The boy ruled at her side for more than a decade. He should know better. 

Vain is not the proper word. This is about power. But maybe Peter wouldn’t have liked the word “ambition” any more than “vanity.”

Susan is a young woman in the 50s and 60s. Frank Tumnus has quite the following now. He’s written a few books, controversial, incendiary. Susan gets wrapped up in the civil rights movement, because of course she would. It’s not her first war. All the same, she almost misses the White Witch. Greed is a cleaner villain than senseless hate. She gets on the Freedom Rider bus, mails Mr. Tumnus articles back home whenever there’s a chance, those rare occasions they’re not locked up or immediately threatened. She is older now than she ever was in Narnia. Susan dreams about Telemarines killing fauns. 

Time rolls on. Maybe she falls in love with a young activist or an old cynic. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe Frank Tumnus, controversial in the moment, brilliant in retrospect, gets offered an honorary title from a prestigious university. She declines and publishes an editorial revealing her identity. Her paper fires her. Three others mail her job offers. 

When Vietnam rolls around, she protests in the streets. Susan understands the costs of war. She has lived through not just through the brutal wars of one life, but two. 

Maybe she has children now. Maybe she tells them stories about a magical place and a magical lion, the stories Lucy and Edmund brought home about how if you sail long enough you reach the place where the seas fall off the edge of the world. But maybe she tells them about Cinderella instead, Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, except Rapunzel cuts off her own hair and uses it to climb down the tower and escape. The damsel uses what tools she has at hand. 

A lion told her to walk away, and she did. He forbade her magic, he forbade her her own kingdom, so she made her own. 

Susan Pevensie did not lose faith. She found it. 

And that’s when I started crying in LAX.

In the book-nerd circles where I hang out, the most famous Twitter-hater by far is Jonathan Franzen, who has accused the service of being “unspeakably dumb,” “a coercive development,” “the ultimate irresponsible medium,” and “everything I oppose.” I love Franzen’s work, but reading him on the topic of Twitter drives me bidirectionally bonkers. Direction one: His opinions are bad-tempered, incurious, oversimplified, recklessly arrived at (he has no idea how Twitter works), and, in many respects, flat wrong. Direction two: How can he be so petulant, so dogmatic, so uninformed, and — in the deepest ways, where it matters most — so disturbingly right? What Franzen is wrong about is what actually transpires on Twitter. It’s not unspeakably dumb; the problem, in fact, is that it’s sufficiently smart and interesting that spending massive amounts of time on it is totally possible and semi-defensible.

[…]

Whatever else Twitter is, it’s a literary form, which goes some way toward explaining why I find it so seductive. A tweet is basically a genre in which you try to say an informative thing in an interesting way while abiding by its constraint (those famous 140 characters) and making use of its curious argot (@, RT, MT, HT). For people who love that kind of challenge — and it’s easy to see why writers might be overrepresented among them — Twitter has the same allure as gaming. It is, essentially, Sentences With Friends.

How Twitter Hijacked My Mind – New York Magazine book critic Kathryn Schulz reflects on the medium’s singular mesmerism. (via explore-blog)

(via explore-blog)

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.

Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

This was the Captain Samuel Vimes ‘Boots’ theory of socioeconomic unfairness.

Terry Pratchett, “Men At Arms”

This is one of the best breakdowns I’ve ever seen of how expensive it is to be poor. (via slephoto)

this is true on so many levels

I always think about the money my parents have spent fixing up our house or various used cars over the years

(via theuppitynegras)

Omg the sheer amounts of money I’ve had to pour into the cheap piece of shit car I have. So absolutely true.

(via genderbitch)

There’s a reason my cat is named Terry Pratchett

(via girljanitor)

__

So much this; from shoes, to car repairs, to health care ( waiting so long until something gets serious & costly vs preventative care) to food (same thing as health - contributing to it) and ON and ON and then compounding wealth - having something to give the next generation (who then claims they never got given anything, like generational wealth isn’t a factor). On and on it goes.

(via seekingwillow)

(via karenhealey)

radicallyvisible:

I don’t know why this making me laugh so hard.Interviewer: So, what can you tell our viewers about your plans for the future?Cat: …Interviewer: …?Cat: *is a cat, what did you expect?* 

radicallyvisible:

I don’t know why this making me laugh so hard.

Interviewer: So, what can you tell our viewers about your plans for the future?
Cat: …
Interviewer: …?
Cat: *is a cat, what did you expect?* 

(via sleepydumpling)

the-platonic-blow:

Eddie Izzard on The Project (Australia) [x]

(via karenhealey)

mixedupqueen:

notthehellyourwhales:

alaricsaltzbuns:

tomhiddlesbitch:

cancerously:

superblys:

anti-shipper:

the-greatest-companion:

castaneacreations:

thegoodlannister:

schwarzweis:

thegoodlannister:

My sister got me a Thor bobblehead.

This is what I did with it.

since I’m a serious grown adult, I have a reply for you

image

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ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh I AM CRYING

legitimately crying

My Yoda bobble-head has something to say…

image

image

it got better

image

image

IT GOT SO MUCH BETTER

image

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image

image

image

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Oh,.its on my dash again.

Reblog.

(via ilaeria)

youwontlivethisonedown:

Last week, as part of a cultural discovery project for one of my classes, I spent three days wearing ‘girls’ clothes while going about my day. I wanted to explore the general reaction and preconceptions that people in my city have to clothing, especially in regards to gender. To me, the idea that a piece of fabric or accessory can be so intertwined with who are in our conscious is perplexing. I didn’t want to show off, or offend anyone by my act of curiosity. Rather, I wanted to act as a meticulous observer of the times, to see if the community around me was really as open-minded as I wanted to believe that it was. After all, if such things really only had a place in the realm of high-fashion and in Scottish tradition, then something bigger must be at work. 

On the first day, I wore a long-sleeve pink top cropped at the collarbone. I received many compliments, a few glares and even a free Venti gingerbread latte. On the second, I rocked a pink blouse with a high-waisted belt. Again, the same amount of well-wishes, questions and passing eye-rolls. These things were to be expected, as it isn’t necessarily the norm to see someone like me wearing things like these. I felt collected and confident in these modest outfits, seemingly convinced that the world around me could care less about the clothes someone wore. Most affirming was the response to my nails, which were almost always met with a cheerful grin, a high-five and a few words of encouragement.

What happened on the third day changed my perspective on humanity forever. I dressed myself as I normally would; band t-shirt, cardigan, plain Vans, etc. However, instead of black jeans, I complimented the outfit with a plain black skirt and matching set of tights. For me, this was a huge step in self-image. Years ago, I was barely confident enough to leave the house for school. These days, the opposite couldn’t be more true. As I set off about my day, the absolute worst in people came out in a full-force flurry of expletives and discomfort. I was ridiculed in whispers. I was mocked in glances. I was obnoxiously and filthily cat-called by a construction crew who, from behind, couldn’t tell that I was a man. Stopping by a bathroom before a lecture, a frat-bro went out of his way to shove me into the adjacent wall after eyeing me up and down on his way out. Expletives and names that might induce me to vomit were I to repeat them, were casually thrown in my direction with almost zero passing thought. By day’s end, I feared a full-on breakdown, unable to stand up for myself or what I believed in to maintain the integrity of the observer’s perspective. In a way, I had no right to feel that way, mostly because of the realization that this is the way that many have to live their lives. I fought back tears as every stare and ill-formed word engrained themselves in my sub-conscious. 

Though I may not know you, I think that it’s important that we all come to understand why these things happen. In my book, cat-calling, shaming and harassment are among the worst actions we can engage in. As a heterosexual male, I will never truly know the fear that women may experience while walking home from work, going see a friend for lunch, or being sized-up in public based on their clothing. I will never truly know the gut-rot that a transgender individual may feel while being eyed up and down at the store or in class, strangers seeming to think as if the clothing they see before them begs a legal invitation of ridicule. I will never truly know the plights of these people, but as an ally and a human being invested in true equality, it is now my obligation to stand up for them as if I did. 

What scares me the most is not the glances, mixed emotions, or 10-page paper that will inevitably come as a by-product of this project. No, what scares me is that this is the world we live in. We exist in a place where individuals living their truths can be subjected, directly or otherwise, to fear simply for living those truths. We live in an age where feeling ‘normal’ in your own clothing can create unfathomable contention with strangers, despite them having zero investment in their lives. We live in a world where the material, the fabric, the pieces that adorn you are somehow allowed to say more about who you are than the convictions in your heart and the sincerity in your deeds.

I don’t know about you, but I refuse that world. I refuse to let these things overcome the passion and genuine honesty that I’ve been so fortunate to bear witness to in my time. I refuse to let backwards, unprogressive mindsets stifle the glow and drive of those who are undeservingly robbed of it. Don’t say it can’t happen to you. If it happened to me, under the most average of circumstances on the streets in a progressive-leaning city, it could happen to anyone, and that is something I truly do not understand.

After all, it’s just a skirt.

What is it about a piece of inanimate, plain fabric that scares you so much? 

awkwardsituationist:

cambridge university students were asked on campus why they needed feminism. here are 60 answers. click the link for over 600 more.

macabrekawaii:

dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING
I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious
I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.
FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD
YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too
like voldemort couldnt even do that shit
molly fuckin weasley couldnt fuckin do that
who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!
PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.
Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.
“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“
Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.
“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”
Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.
Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”
“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”
Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”
“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.
“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”
“What’s yer point?”
“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”
“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”
Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”
And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.
“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.
••••••••
Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.
“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.
“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”
“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”
Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”
“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”
Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.”
“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.
“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”
The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

I am done, this is the end of the world, it’s all downhill from here

macabrekawaii:

dualscar:

captainexposition:

shermansgallifreyan:

oxboxer:

feferipixies:

the-fandoms-are-cool:

everythingis19:

cosmicsyzygy:

Look, I made a gif of this most awesome wizard at the Leaky Cauldron!

DUDE IS READING ‘A BRIEF HISTORY OF TIME’ BY STEPHEN HAWKING

I NEVER REALIZED

are you serious

I always assumed wizards just ignored science, because the fact that “magic” exists, can explain anything. But there are MuggleBorn wizards, ones who, until they were eleven, lived in the real world and learned science and things. Did they all just abandon that normal, muggle knowledge, like Harry did? It’s always been there, itching in the back of my mind.

FOUR FOR YOU SCIENCE WIZARD

YOU GO SCIENCE WIZARD

can we point out that he’s doing wandless magic too

like voldemort couldnt even do that shit

molly fuckin weasley couldnt fuckin do that

who are you

Quick, somebody write a book series about the adventures of Magic Prodigy Science Wizard!!!

PLEASE SOMEONE JUST DO IT

Alan Baker had no use for wands, of course. If one were to Prior Incantato his outdated, duct-taped rod of walnut wood and dragon heartstring, its most recent use would have been the enchantment of the long-lived neurons in Alan’s own mind. This enchantment, possible only for those who were capable of seeing themselves as a complex amalgamation of neural impulses, allowed him to bypass both wands and words. Alan did this, not for show, not for power, but because wandwork distracted him from his reading.

Unfortunately, there was no legal spell to get rid of barflies.

“Hey- hey mate, you gotta- gotta minute to-“

Sobrius, Alan thought, placing one hand on his neighbor’s forehead without looking up. He pondered whether or not to cast a silencing barrier, even in violation of the Leaky Cauldron’s safety code.

“Thanks,” said the now-sober man, “Readin’ more of that Muggle trash, I see.”

Alan closed his eyes and counted to three, but when he opened them, the man was still there. Alan lowered his “muggle trash” in defeat, meeting the baggy, bloodshot eyes of the wizard sitting across from him.

Alan leaned forward, placing his hands steeple-like on the table. “Mr. Fletcher, do you know why time turners don’t send you into space?”

“The sky, y’mean? Cause they’re fer time turnin’, not apparation.”

Alan had to take a deep breath. “No,” he replied, “If time turners weren’t anchored to anything, the Earth’s rotation alone would be enough to ensure a time traveler’s demise. But someone at the ministry was clever enough to anchor them to a carefully guarded object that never moves relative to the Earth.”

“Fascinat’n,” slurred Mundungus, whose eyes had glazed over once it became clear that Alan didn’t actually have a time turner on him.

“But time turners are still very limited,” continued Alan, more to himself than to Mundungus, “They can’t go more than seven hours back, and not forward at all, and only in increments of one hour, and they only work on Earth… no, they’re very clumsy, if one truly pauses to think about it.”

“What’s yer point?”

“My point is that while wizards are slowly stagnating in their backwards remnant of the Dark Ages, Muggles are making progress, ever reaching for the light. Do you know that they don’t need magic to craft a hand of living silver?”

“Bah,” was Mundungus’s only reply, “You’d be best mates with that Weasley nutcase at the ministry, you would.”

Alan stood up, silently casting an infantes gelata to check for paradoxes. “I don’t know why I bother with you,” he sighed, “you’ve just wasted another two minutes of my time. Perhaps I bother because I have time to waste.”

And he twisted, as if to apparate, but instead faded out of existence with a distinct vworp. The air swirled in the wake of his departure, blowing back Mundungus’s straggly ginger hair.

“Muggleborns,” the short wizard muttered, then turned back to his drink.

••••••••

Thirty minutes earlier, Alan lounged contentedly within his quieting barrier, stirring his cup of tea absently and rereading one of his favourite Muggle books. He wondered, vaguely, which planet held the nearest sapient life, and what their magic would look like…

This rereading, however, would be slightly shorter than the last. Even within the barrier, the presence of another at the table tickled at Alan’s consciousness. He set down his book (rather forcefully, he had to admit,) and looked up. The bloodshot eyes of Mundungus Fletcher didn’t meet him when his own rose.

“Hello,” mouthed the man. Finite Incantatum, thought Alan.

“Hello,” he answered, “Can I help you?”

“No, not really. Well, maybe. Well, probably. Have you seen anything strange lately? Disappearing cats, people moving backwards, variances in the time vortex causing precise and intentional reversal of the course of events?”

Alan couldn’t help but stare. “Er…now that you mention it, I was just…” he trailed off as he glanced out the window and did a double take. There was a 1960s-style Muggle police telephone box in the middle of Diagon Alley. “…Is…is that a telephone box?”

“No. Yes. Recreation. Mock-up. Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively even as he pulled on a pair of what appeared to be cheap 3-D glasses. “What I want to know,” he murmured conspiratorially, “is what’s giving you that floaty, aurary, bizarrey stuff all over you, because that should not be happening to a human. Person. I said person”

Alan’s eyebrows furrowed. “First of all, this is Diagon Alley. Most people out there wouldn’t know a police box from a pillbox, especially given it’s bright blue. Second of all, those glasses shouldn’t give you the ability to see what you’re seeing. And thirdly, Expelliarmus.

“Expelliwhat?” the man squawked, just as a long, chunky metallic object with a blue tip shot out of his jacket pocket and into Alan’s hand. A quick Identification spell told him all he needed to know.

“Fuzzy logic neural interface configured for ease of use, limited nonverbal manipulation of mechanical and electronic objects…Interesting. And leaps and bounds beyond anything wizards or Muggles can conjure up. What are you?”

The man stared at him for a few minutes before breaking out in a wide smile. “Hello. I’m the Doctor. Let me tell you a little bit about the universe…”

IT GOT BETTER

I am done, this is the end of the world, it’s all downhill from here

(via ilaeria)