But! But but but!
Sam DOES follow, just not right away. Sam lives a long, prosperous, ridiculously happy life in Hobbiton with Rosie, with whom he has many children. He was mayor of Hobbiton SEVEN times until he retired at age 96, oversaw the establishment of the Shire as its own independent land, and was personally given the Star of the Dunedain by King Elessar as a gesture of friendship and love. But when Rosie passed away on Mid-Year’s day, Sam rode out from Bag End on September 22nd for the last time and finally followed Frodo to Valinor as the third and last Ringbearer to do so at the grand old age of 104.
He did exactly as Frodo asked him to. He was whole, and happy, and he enjoyed and did more than he could have ever imagined when he was a humble gardener listening in for tales of the Elves. And when he had lived out his life in peace and absolute happiness he earned his reward and followed Frodo home.
DON’T TOUCH ME OH MY ERU.
Every boyfriend is the one
Until otherwise proven
The good are never easy
The easy never good
and love it never happens like you think it really should
Are wonderful traits
One will breed love
The other.. hate
“i’m so depressed,” posted the caucasian heterosexual cisgender teenage girl on her blog
“I’m so depressed” posted the person who is clinically depressed and who cannot help their depression despite their privilege because depression does not exclusively affect certain groups.
PSA: if somebody likes a problematic/unhealthy ship but doesn’t try to defend the problematic elements of that ship and simply enjoys it in a fictional/narrative context with all of it’s fucked up ness and you attack them and bring their personal morality into question for shipping it, you are the asshole in that situation.
UPDATE: this goes for characters too, assholes.
Be careful what you tell your daughter. Take care with the words you lend to her ear.
Imagine your voice as the thunder on a summer evening, moments before she leaves to see her friends. Your diction is either lightning, striking down on her youth, or the familiar rumble of summer cloud cover. Your parting words will come as a rainstorm or a blanket of deep blue-gray warmth against the breeze of nighttime.
Be careful what you tell your daughter. At the dinner table, she should open up to you, her stories should bubble up and out to glide softly into your heart. Listen, empathize, empower. Do not spell “why did you let him do that?” in her alphabet soup when it’s not her motives that must be questioned.
Be sure your hands conjure a force, a tornado raised from the ashes of sacrificed women before her. Instill within her the majesty of a queen, who loves her kingdom, will sacrifice for her kingdom and will lay down her pride for her kingdom.
To teach your daughter how to walk down the street and turn every head in awe is the goal. You must build her up, not break her down with the stigmas that she is but an instrument of beauty.
Your daughter is not just beautiful. She is bold, she is human, she is graceful, she is intelligent and she is the unforgettable whirlwind of charm that leaves behind strands of hair like tokens for all who will praise her.
Do not teach your daughter that she’s capable of anything less than the distance to the moon. Your daughter is not a mother; do not treat her as one. Tell her every day that until she dies that she still has time. Tell her that until her parting breath. She has the same amount of potential in her pen, in her ballet slipper, in her tennis shoe or in her theories as the universe has energy.
Never limit your daughter to merely a role in the kitchen, a role as a victim or a role as a supporting part. Your daughter is the hero, your daughter is the antagonist, and your daughter is the author.
Be careful what you tell your son. Do not replace his tears with daggers. Do not teach him the flaws of the past. His gender and skin color do not define his power.
Remind your son that he’s made of atoms that once composed the silken petals of roses. That the definition in his biceps is for raising people up, not striking them down. Be cautious that you are not the third Little Pig; do not build your son with stone.
Never justify your son’s mistakes with “boys will be boys” because boys will be foolish, boys will be heart broken, boys will be warriors, boys will be nurses, but boys will never just be boys.
Do not teach your son to be a puzzle piece, that he belongs somewhere. Teach your son to be a beacon. Teach your son to be a leader, to be an individual.
Encourage him to watch scary movies. Encourage him to be afraid. Encourage him to be bold enough to check under his bed for monsters. Teach him that fear isn’t meant to be hidden, teach him that fear is meant to be faced, and at no time does shame marry the feeling of terror. Teach your son that he is every color of the sunset; he is the pink blush of gentility, he is the rich gold of success and he is the vivid orange of creativity.
Be careful what you tell your son. Tell him that he has every right to be a man and a stay-at-home father, a choreographer or a fashion designer. Your son was not born to be just A Man. He was born to be himself.
Be careful what you tell the heir to your throne. Be kind and thoughtful in the messages you convey to the flowers you grow. Do not define the limits they will reach. Do not confine the limits they will reach. Do not intervene with heights they will reach.
Be careful what you tell your daughter, be careful what you tell your son, and be careful that you don’t limit their access or love of this kingdom under the sun.
passion is intelligent and beautiful and way underrated. fuck sadness and aloofness and apathy being associated with intelligence, and fuck world weary assholes who don’t get that and decide to romanticize the feeling of being disconnected and empty
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