GARYYYYYYYYYYY

“Average resident of dreamside has 1 braincell" factoid actualy just statistical error. The average resident of dreamside actually has 0 braincells. Cucumber, who has a typical amount of brain cells, is an outlier adn should not have been counted. 

I have been fighting death ever since I was born and I’m not fucking dead yet so one can only assume that I’ve just kept winning

britney spears has lost the court case, again, to end her father's conservatorship over her, and it makes me so fucking SAD that no one is in her corner, apart from like... britney stans that the rest of public opinion and internet treats as a joke. hashtag free britney itself started as a joke. meanwhile, she's now saying that she will not perform any more as long as her father has control over her, and still, no one seems to be in her corner. she has been infantilized since the beginning of her career, and her mental breakdown added that extra ~insanity~ layer to it all, thus turning her into someone who is treated condescendingly, with pity, with sarcasm, like a lobotomized version of her former self performing for others to make fun of her. but she is not given empathy. where is the fucking compassion?? not even out of nostalgia for a pop icon formative for an entire generation, in the full meaning of the word? who is having britney's back?? she deserves so much more.

Solidarity.

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It’s the Little Things

Little delightful things: Cat. Battle. Armor.

So funky it hurts

Please get him a little sword actually

He’s going into the tavern soon to find his next quest

She’s ready for Warrior Cats Part VI: The Cat-O Period

Bonus:

Low Budget Version

Leff

“You look terrible,” she said. He could only harrumph softly in response. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Good morning to you too.” “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” She stood from her seat at the dining table. With the aid of her long limbs, she quickly stood before him. A gentle hand on the side of his cheek angled his face. “Have you been getting any sleep lately?” “What’s sleep?” he deadpanned, jokingly of course. His own hand lifted up to wrap around her wrist. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just been a tiring few days.” She frowned at him. Clearly in disbelief. He didn’t blame her. Not only was he terrible at lying, but they’d had also been stuck in quarantine for the past few weeks. He goes to his meetings without pants on.  “Quarantine is tiring,” he said in response to the thought that is no doubt ringing in her head. “Very stressing.” “That’s true.” She twisted her wrist out of his grasp. “What’s not true is your excuse to why you haven’t been sleeping.” “I have been,” he protested. A hand lifted up to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he muttered. “Pardon?” He sighed and dropped his hand. Her worried face made him pause - made his gaze soften slightly. “I’ve been having...” he trailed off. “Nightmares?” She raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?” He rolled his eyes and pushed past her. “Shut up,” he muttered. With a sigh, he made his way towards the sofas - flopping down on the soft cream cushions.  “I think I’ve been having nightmares,” he muttered. “But I can’t remember what they are, most of the time.” The cushion beneath him dipped downwards slightly as she joined him. A frown was sketched into the features of her face - accompanied by a pair of furrowed eyebrows. “How do you know they’re nightmares if you can’t remember them?” she tilted her head, leaning her chin on her fist. “Mostly from the...vibe?” he tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing. “I woke up feeling like I just had a nightmare, so...” She leaned back, sinking underneath the cushions. Her eyes - deep in thought - stared right through him. “You really can’t remember anything?” she asked again. He sighed and glanced away. “Not really,” he muttered. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. “I remember it was....really, really bright?” “Bright?” she prodded. Slowly, his head dipped up and down in a nod. “Really, really bright...” He leaned against the sofa, tilting his head upwards in thought. “And it was...loud.” Suddenly then, he winced. A light pain stabbed into the side of his temple - a feeling he shook off. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” he breathed out a sharp breath. Blinked a few times. “Small headache. Anyway, there was...a sort of table-” He can see it in his mind’s eye now. A table so dark it contrasted with the pure white surroundings. Except- “-it wasn’t a table.” He held his hands out, staring at them. His vision blurred slightly with the raging headache. “It was a hole...in a shape of a table.” “A hole in the shape of a table?” She sounded amused now.  He didn’t blame her. He snickered softly himself. “Uh huh, so I leaned over to look in it-” -and then? What happened after that? Why can’t he remember. Dark tendrils unfurling. Why was there a hole shaped like a table? Clicking sounds. A high-pitched growl. Why was he talking about this? Slimy, boney hands. His head. Hurt. She leapt off the sofa with a screech. Her heart hammered in her throat. Her fear made it hard to think as- She watched as his head jerked back violently. Watched in horror as the skull split in two. Watched as some thing- -crawled out of the gaping hole in his skull. It growled as it fell to the ground. A high-pitched sound that made her ears ring. Tendrils unfurled from its back. A being. Of nightmares. It had no head. It had no definitive shape. It kept changing and shifting- Yet somehow she knew the exact moment it’s focus landed on her. Because it, then, smiled.

wow i was-

i was reading some of my old, unfinished fan-fiction. a few minutes ago i reached the end and was like; ‘oh what where’s the rest?’

dumbass didn’t realise there’s no more because they didn’t write more-

dumbass being, well, me

19 years after the events of 'If you must die, sweetheart,'

Grogu is older. Stronger. He can protect the other younglings - he can even protect Master Luke, despite the constant questions of 'why you?' That, Grogu thinks, is a stupid question. Who else would it be? 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909794

well, there you have it. the first step in my Mandalorian Grogu Universe. I have a lot of ideas, some of them really cool, some of then might be terrible. We’ll see how it goes.

(The fic does heavy reference the first part of its series, so strong encouraging to read that first part before this one)

Writing Prompt #5

‘Park’

There’s this park across the street where I live.

Looks like your average park; with it’s benches and gravel pathways and trees and bushes. A stone fountain stands in it’s centre, with water spewing out of the gargoyles’ mouth.

A bit gothic, I realise now. But that was it.

It sounded like your average park too. Bird songs in the morning, leaves rustling when it’s windy, kids yelling after school. I could always hear the crunch crunch of the gravel across the usually quiet street, and it comforted me.

Most of the time.

There were other times, of course, when I woke up in cold sweat. Everything quiet and still, except for the crunch crunch of the gravel.

These times, I pulled my covers up to my chin and prayed. Hoped against hope - against the fear that seized me in its claws and refused to let go - that I’d live to see the light of morning day.

You ask me, you ask; ‘what’re you so afraid of? Maybe it’s just someone who went for a late night walk.’ Of course, after daybreak I’ve thought of that. I tried to dismiss my terror as stupid, childish, or even at that slightly overcooked chili I had the night before.

But try as I might, I still could not bring myself to look out the window the nights it happened. I still wrapped myself up in my covers, and shook.

Eventually, they started getting more frequent. I’d spend nights in a row with barely enough sleep and covered in sweat - shaking like I just stepped out in winter with nothing but shorts.

My friends would ask to hang out, and we’d go to the park because it was close. I didn’t use to mind walking through the trees, but the sleepless nights were starting to get to me. I could’ve sworn I saw the gargoyle’s eyes move along as I walked past - could’ve sworn that the rustling of leaves sounded like whispers.

Eventually, it got bad. Really, really bad. I’ve tried filing a police report, but they waved me off and said they had bigger things on their plate than ‘mysterious gravel crunching’.

I was frustrated, but mainly because they were right. I still couldn’t bring myself to even sit up on my bed - much less look out that damned window.

Then it happened.

It was daytime, with the sun shining in and the children playing around on the park across from me. I looked out my window then, a half-smile of my face as I remembered my own childhood days.

Then I froze.

The gargoyle. I could swear that the gargoyle had moved. For the years I’ve spent living across from it, I knew how it looked like the back of my hand now. I knew how the whole damn fountain looked, and could probably draw it from memory alone.

The gargoyle had never been facing me head on like it did now.

That was the last straw for me. I packed my bags and went to live with one of my close friends. I sold the house, though barely just resisted from dropping the price down too steeply - after all, nothing had happened.

Yet.

One day, on my way to work, I passed by a newspaper stand with an eerily familiar picture on its front page. With shaking hands, I unfolded it, and read the article.

A brutal murder, it said, in the house just a street away from a park. The picture was grotesque enough - and I could tell that they’d avoided giving the worst. The details were identifiable enough.

An all too familiar bedroom, half a body on the floor, and the other half presumably missing. Blood that coated every inch of the wall like a fresh coat of paint, and deep deep gouge marks on the window sill.

The article had said that investigating parties assumed that the murder escaped out the window, and had cut through the park to run free. They warned all those who lived in close area to the park to be wary of strangers - never open the door to anyone you don’t know.

They still haven’t found the murderer when I checked months later.

I’d visited the family of those I sold the house to. They welcomed me - albeit a bit shakily - and served me tea.

‘They said they’ve been having sleepless nights,’ one of the mothers had said to me. ‘They-they said-oh god if only we’d listened.’

Her wife wrapped her arms around her shoulders and held her close as I half-murmured comforts from across the coffee table. Her gaze met my own as she silently comforted - the grief in them so deep I nearly fell through.

Eventually, the couple moved out, I heard. Travelled far away, where they cut off from their own family and friends. The investigators still worked to find the assailant, but the case was growing cold and I doubted that they’d actually find who did it.

And me? I bought a new apartment from long nights and extra shifts. One far away from parks and gargoyles and gravel. The close friend that I’d stayed with had helped me move in.

‘Looks good,’ they praised. ‘Hopefully you can actually get some sleep in here this time.’

We’d laughed about it. The whole incident had been months ago - nothing more than a bad memory that we occasionally poke at just for the laughs.

That first night, I woke up to the crunch crunch of gravel.

imagine getting robbed

i thought that “vein jewelry” was going to be. jewelry designed to look like veins, maybe? jewelry made out of real animal veins, at worst. it’s. it’s not. 

vein jewelry is jewelry you insert into your veins

there should be a german word for when you prepare to experience horror, but are still somehow shocked by how it plays out