A Concept: Mermaids In Wheelchairs

This is incredible! It makes so much sense!

An incredibly dumb thought came to me when I figured out how to solve the password for aheistwithmarkiplier.com. Dark said that he put in the secret codes into every adventure in this story. HE put the codes in HIMSELF.

For a while I’ve been wondering. Mark said that William, the Actor, and Damien are basically characters borne out of different aspects of himself. And so I was wondering how the hell then does Dark relate to Mark’s charitable side? If Dark is a mutation of Damien, corrupted and angry, what does that say about Mark and his charity? Well, I’ve got it! It all makes sense to me now! Because of this stray thought because of Dark’s ending with the heist!

Willford is boundless, unrestrained creativity. With no one to hold him back or to make him settle down, he will do the most outlandish wild things, even if that means violence. Wilford is in essence the love for creating and imagination.

The Actor is unrestrained ego. He is charisma and the face and the smile that you adore. The Actor is the one you see on the screen and while the other two are always there and are always present, the Actor is the one who gets the credit. The Actor is what you see, but that is also all he is. A transient face. The Actor is in essence the love for Mark’s own self. But not necessarily in a narcissistic sense either. Because in order to know who you want to be and what you need to do to make yourself happy, you must learn to love yourself too. Or at least the person you want and pretend to be.

Dark IS restraint. He is knowledge and patience and anger and restlessness and rules and order. Dark operates unseen, unknown and unacknowledged. He may indulge himself every once in a while, but he has work to do. And the work is never over. Besides indulgence is what the other two are for. Dark cares more and more deeply than the either two do. He is the restraint that keeps the other two from doing anything that they will regret. He keeps us, the audience from ever getting hurt. He may play games, but ultimately keeps us from seeing the worst of the world. Dark is in essence the love for others and the audience especially.

Another way to put this. Wilford is the writer. Mark is the performer. Dark is the editor.

Dark IS the editor! Of course Dark’s always mad! He’s the editor! He’s the one who has to do the freaking WORK! He has to tie everything together. Make everything cohesive. Make it not insufferable for the audience. Because he cares about the audience. He has to schedule. He has to think. That’s why Dark is his charitable side. He cares about the audience. He cares about everyone! And he might get sour about it, but he cares, you know? In the end all three parts need one another to be the Mark that we all genuinely love.

that one extremely homoerotic painting of a babylonian man listening to a babylonian twink playing babylonian harp. that one

Its destiny

i don’t think we’re talking enough about the fact that miles has a little sister now

Oh my heart, I am deceased

An explanation.

Wolves are huge!!

While walking the dog yesterday, we found the tracks of a pack of wolves that had passed across the edge of our property. (I live out in the highway in Alaska.) I took a picture of my hand next to a wolf track for comparison. 

Now here’s a picture of my hand with one of our dog’s tracks:

And he’s not an especially small dog; he’s a 55-lb retriever mix.

And the dog’s tracks next to wolf tracks:

Wolves are huge.

When i first read this it nearly killed me, so i had to draw it :V

What's the real thing the 3am text/creepy grandma at your door prompt is based on!?!? Please, I need details!!! 💙

A friend got a text from an unknown number that said “do NOT answer the door” during a sleepover, which was instantly followed by someone knocking at the door and an elderly woman calling out, asking if any of us had any honey to spare. Given the fact they lived up a crazy long driveway, surrounded by forest, and it was 3 am, it was pretty sus.

Our small group kind of freaked out, and naturally I was delighted.

It was at this point that I remembered we had gone shopping for sleepover provisions earlier in the day, and had mistakenly bought honey instead of syrup, and no one liked honey (there was much complaining). So I did a dash for the kitchen and snatched the honey, then rather gleefully bounded over to the door, much to my friends horror.

Sure enough, very old lady is standing at the door, looking like every grandma stereotype you’ve ever heard of. I looked rather manic myself, with what my friends called, “That freaky unhinged grin you do.”, and handed her the whole thing of honey, and told her she could have it.

She looked genuinely surprised and kind of straightened a bit, then got this glint in her eyes and started fighting a grin. 

We stood there and bantered for a while as my friends freaked the fuck out inside, before she finally said goodbye, told me to “Keep making mischief” and then strode off down the drive with a walk that was very much at odds with her hunched “feeble” appearance from a few moments earlier.

None of my friends slept that night, and I took particular glee in making strange noises whenever they would start to calm down. I was always a little shit like that.

Never saw her again, but I was gifted a rather beaten looking metal (Brass maybe?) flute the next evening on the doorstep with a simple “Thank you” written on a leaf of all things. None of my friends wanted to go anywhere near it, and I still have it to this day.

“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.

A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.

I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,

“I am the manager.”

It's amazing how a simple stare can convey so much

Parallels