Shakespeare Songs: 6. As You Like It

And worms have eaten them.

Forest backs the front to back
Girls escape to what they lack
Marriage to the poet’s tongue
Breaks a word for what they won

And worms have eaten them

Wrestle with the darker side
Learn to love without your pride
Lions wait for snakes to strike
In the woods, do what you like

And worms have eaten them

Chop and change every role
Be the person you have stole
Heart is strong and love is bold
Friendship frightens off the cold

And worms have eaten them

Men require education
Danger faces eradication
Reunited to your soul
You make your selfhoods whole

And worms have eaten them

Death comes like the winter wind
Teeth and eyes and all give in
Life must face its music end
Folk and fear must find a friend

And worms have eaten them


It’s cold on the pier,
As the breeze blows through my hair.
There are people here,
But I wish they’d leave -
For I’d rather be alone,
To grieve.

I’ve lost you
And I haven’t come to terms
With the fact
That you’re never coming back.

The waves make noise,
as they crash back and forth
Like our relationship,
Drifting away with the tide.
I can’t believe it’s over,
I can’t believe it ended at my hand.
I wonder what you think of me,
Now that it’s all said and done.

The air is colder here on the pier,
It feels like the winter has come back
Like the winter we shared together,
Huddled under blankets for warmth.
I feel so empty,
Yet I feel everything.
I feel the pain of losing you,
I feel the pain of never hearing your voice again.
I feel the pain of being alone,
Without your guidance,
Without your laughter,
Without your poetry.
My hands shake from the cold,
Or is it the fact that I no longer have yours to hold?
I wonder if we’d have gotten married,
Sometime down the road.

I look at the water,
Moving below this pier,
And I can’t help but be jealous
That it gets to be part of something bigger,
That it gets to move,
While I’m stuck in one spot
Waiting for you to come back,
When I know you never will.

Frozen 2 and the Elsa problem.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to my Online Social Justice Warrior Layer.

As you know, Frozen 2 is is coming. Much like winter in GOT it won’t be here for a while. But that begs the question: What are they going to do with Elsa?

This my friends, is the difficult truth: SHE WILL BE GETTING A ROMANTIC INTEREST. It’s the only logical narrative outcome.

Now, lets look at her prospects of romance, by analysing her most popular ships. I’ll look at the people we ship her with, and ask the big questions like:

-What be them?
-Who do they?
-And Why?…


Jack Frost:
Pros: Also has ice-powers, Playful personality similar to Anna, which Elsa would be able to relate to. Cute together.
Cons: Is a teenager, Is legally dead, is also legally Dreamworks property.

Pros: Knows Elsa well, Only person Elsa truly loves, Cute together.
Cons: Is her sister. This is Disney and Arendelle, not HBO and Dorne, people.

Pros: He loves Ice. She makes Ice. Cute together.
Cons: He loves Anna. She loves Anna. Awkward.

Pros: Similar difficult childhoods, he’s well endowed, combination of their genes would make sexiest children ever made. Would be drop dead sexy together.
Cons: he may have unresolved psychological issues. And he tried to kill her. 0-1. But he also saved her in her palace. 1-1. But he left her sister to die. Ouch.

Male OC:
Pros: Umm…
Cons: He’d be hated by fans. Despised by all. A pariah desperately clinging to the idea that he and Elsa should be. Remember the ice skating guy? Yeah…

Female OC:
Pros: LGBTQA representation in a Disney movie, makes film even more inclusive, would be a role model to younger audience members who struggle with their own sexual identity, would preach a message of tolerance and acceptance.
Cons: Disney is conservative as fuck.

Conclusion: If Elsa is getting a love interest, it would logically be either a a Female OC, or a redeemed Prince Hans (ducks head to avoid thrown objects because of the second option.)

But it’ll probably be a male OC, because Disney is stupid.

Time and the Old Man

Date unknown

The days go by
Like fireflies
The years pass
Like blowing grass
The clock ticks
The hour hand clicks
People come and go
Just like winter snow
Hours pass like seconds
As the minute hand beckons

An old man sites in a chair
The wind blowing in his hair
He rocks himself into the age of the old
He would never get up, to be so bold
Time goes on for this old man
He will not believe, though he can

He rocks himself to sleep
He prays the Lord his soul to keep

The Blank Inquisitor

I know I promised a post about Cory but I really want to talk about the Inquisitor. I swear, though, I’m going to get to Cory eventually.

I’ve talked mostly about game mechanics so far, but even more frustrating than some of the problematic mechanics is the problematic narrative. And I don’t mean problematic in the “poorly handled social justice” sort of way. Well, actually, I absolutely do, but that’s not what I’m focusing on right now (but it is coming like a harsh winter storm, I assure you). For now, I mean from a narrative standpoint. And there are several ways to approach this:

Anticlimactic tie-ups

Half-done character arcs

Character arcs that don’t even make sense

Characters that barely even exist

The general main story-line

Narrative for quest dynamics

As you can imagine, those are all in the works. I’ll link to them when they’re posted.

This time, though, I’m going to look at the narrative in terms of the Inquisitor. Some of these points will overlap with points in other posts, but they’re very relevant here as well.

Keep reading


Summary: Sansa sees Jon’s scars.

The room Jon had taken for his chambers is not as small as Sansa feared it might be. It used to be a room reserved for visitors. All of the strangers who had made Winterfell their unwilling home since then- turncloaks and bastards and creatures without souls- seemed to have kept it that way.

It is clean and spacious, with a sizable bed that could fit two, but it lacked any character, its decor kept to a minimum. Sansa would’ve tried to occupy her eyes with something other than Jon’s bare chest when she came in, but was given nothing. It isn’t like the lord’s chambers, her chambers; no carpet made of fur, no bowls of fruit, no carvings of the faces of Winterfell’s long-dead kings on the wooden posts of the bed.

The servants have even recovered one of Sansa’s old quilts. It is embellished with vines and trees and a picture of wolves lurking in the woods and a prince in a golden crown somewhere in the middle, holding a golden blade, like something from a song.

She walks in and warmth envelopes her, emanating from the fireplace like the orange, crackling breath of a dragon.

Once she sees him, she forgets why she had come. The jagged ridges on his skin look unhealed and grotesque. The flesh is parted and there is a blackness in between, like he was cut open and inside was a void that couldn’t be closed.

Sansa’s grip on the door handle tightens. “I should’ve knocked. I’ll come back later.”

He’s not entirely exposed, thank the gods, but somehow she thinks this is worse, seeing the marks of betrayal on him. She heard the story from many mouths, but she hadn’t summoned the courage to ask him. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what it pained for him to speak. She couldn’t bare to think that he had once been pale and cold and dead like winter come again.

She’s turning to leave but he asks her if something is wrong. She controls her expression but stumbles over the words. “I was just- I wanted to know if you intended to send the men to hunt. The game, we’ll need furs for the winter to come. The meat, too, of course, though that’s for the short-term.”

He looks surprised, The question seems silly now to Sansa. He was expecting something more troubling. She felt like a little girl and thought of all the times she had practically broken down her lady mother’s door to show her a new dress or tattle on Arya.

Jon stands holding his linen shirt as it grazes the floor. She keeps a steady gaze on his face, and it bears a few scars of its own, but on the blurred outskirts of her vision she could still see the ones that are wrong. Too deep. Too dark on his ghostly pale chest.

He clears his throat. “We’ll address it at the next meeting with the bannermen. We’ll need everything we can, before all the warm days slip away.”

Sansa shuffles by the doorway. She should shut the door and leave, let him be at peace in his chambers. The sun has nearly set over the horizon and sent the grey-blue clouds ablaze with streaks of red and orange. She meant to retire to her bedchambers, too. A bath was being drawn for her that would get cold if she did not come soon. Yet she’s grounded to the spot. She feels a quiet she hadn’t known for a while, here, at her brother’s doorstep. Save for the guards at their posts and the stable and kennel masters making noise in the courtyard, there is no one. Winterfell is settling in for sleep. She’s wary only of one man even when she does not see him. It is enough to know that he lurks somewhere in these halls.

“Is there anything else?” Jon asks her. 

She steps forward and pushes the door closed behind her. Her voice hitches with a curiosity she feels ashamed for. “Is that where they…?”

He follows her gaze to his body. A shadow falls over his face, and she imagines he has remembered a nightmare. He hasn’t spoken of it, but she is learning how to read his restrain, how to notice the nuances between all his solemn expressions. 

“That’s where they killed me, yes.” His voice is low, like it is a burden for him to speak.

“They haven’t healed,” she observes. “Not properly. Have you been to see the maester?”

“I don’t think these are the types of wounds that heal.”

She comes closer to get a better look. Shadows dance across the room and over him as the fire grows uneasy. Up close, they are a more brutal sight. She draws in a breath. She wants to see the faces of his killers. If Jon hadn’t already executed them, she thinks, I would’ve liked to. 

“I’m all right.” Jon pulls up his shirt, intending to put it on. “Nothing but an ugly sight now.” 

“Still,” Sansa sighs. “You should see the maester for a salve. There’s one that makes cuts swell less.” It stings when it touches your skin, Sansa thinks. It works, but not like a miracle. Your wounds will stay longer than you want them to. You’ll have to hide them with extra fabrics and jewelry and hair pieces. 

He reassures her he’ll see the maester, that it might work for the newer ones. The shirt falls over him like a curtain over a dark secret in a tower.

“You never talked about what happened,” Sansa says. He had told her they needed to trust each other, and she wonders whether he’s ready to give her more than just political honesty. There’s a space between them that she wants to close, but he’s stuck in his Northern manner of reservedness. She wonders if he is trying to protect her by never giving her the truth of the story she’d been passed down like tavern gossip. Maybe he is protecting himself. 

“There’s nothing to say. I was betrayed, I died, I came back.” 

“But when you died…what was that like?” Who did you see? Did you feel pain beyond this world? Sansa had stopped praying to the gods because she knew they would not save her, but often when she had been a prisoner inside a cold room only a few doors away, she had wondered if she would get to look upon their cruel faces when she died. Maybe she’d spit on them and they would punish her for all her insolence, but at least she would be somewhere other, being tortured in a way she had willingly earned.

The bed chamber grows dark as the last of the sun’s rays slip away through the crack under the door. 

The bed is layered with thick quilts and furs and it creaks under Jon’s weight when he sits on it. He looks to the flickering flames of the fire. 

“I felt nothing. Saw nothing. It was darkness on all sides and nothing more.  Like being asleep and not dreaming.” 

What would all the septons and priestesses and devoted followers of gods old and new have to say to that? Sansa wonders boldly. The words only stir the hollow feeling that had been growing inside her since blood had dripped from her father’s severed head onto the sacred steps of the Great Sept. As a little girl, she would’ve told him he was a liar. She would’ve told Jon he was insolent and then weeped, scared he wasn’t lying at all. 

Now she is not scared. Jon looks bruised and weary. The dark circles under his eyes aren’t just shadow tricks. She sits beside him on the bed.

Septa Mordane’s lessons come to the forefront of her mind. She feels a phantom ache in her knees, remembering kneeling on rough gravel, squeezing her eyes shut, keeping her hands firmly clasped together, and begging for a prince to wed, and then, soon after, a prince’s severed head. 

“Maybe the gods knew you weren’t meant to die,” Sansa begins slowly. “Maybe they wanted to bring you back all along and spared you the sight of the seven hells.” Jon looks at her with raised eyebrows.

“Or wherever you were meant to end up,” Sansa adds quickly. 

Jon laughs. His eyes crinkle and he is not so pale now, warmed by the blood rushing to his cheeks, by the fur underneath him, the fire. Sansa’s amusing, hopeful tone. Sansa doesn’t care that she might be slipping back into a careless faith. She’d be a saint and pledge her life and slit her palm for sacrificial blood to whatever god could make Jon smile like that. 

The silence has helped you hear His voice clearer. You’d recognize it flowing from another mouth that hears Him, too. A voice that warms the cold away and soothes the hurt with a warm joy and tender love. Coming like spring to your winter, reminding you of the hope of life ahead. Seasons don’t last forever and hearts heal in time. There’s a beauty even in this- the discovery of each new day, even with the strength it requires to carry through. Be patient with yourself, dear heart, and never give up believing good is coming. There’s more for you.
—   the friendship of His friend //
Let us acknowledge the Lord;
   let us press on to acknowledge him.
As surely as the sun rises,
   he will appear;
he will come to us like the winter rains,
   like the spring rains that water the earth.
—  Hosea 6:3

206. We are not allowed to charm the shower water to randomly turn cold in the middle of a person’s shower.

You people have no respect for others. - JP

I had no idea your voice could go so high. - SB

I thought we made a mistake and there was actually a girl in our bathroom. - PP

That doesn’t make any sense. Why would you think that? - SB

Because his voice was so high. It sounded like a little girl screaming. - PP

Ha! - SB

Just you two wait. You know what they say. Revenge is best served COLD. - JP

Game of Thrones: Ep. 1 Reactions #spoilers

..because I was spamming twitter, so here’s all of my thoughts on Episode 1.


Why is it called ‘winter is coming’? It already looks like winter to me.

Is that Matt Damon?



Is that Aragorn?




Got it… not winter everywhere.

Does that tree have a face?


Homie just showed up on a horse and he’s already slaying the ladies. And he’s like 13.



They had iridescent tile back in the day? 



Daenarys has the best booty. Ever.

I don’t care if that pony tail means honor. It’s gross.

Brother is douche. I hope he dies first.


What up with all the brothers and sisters do-