And we would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for you meddling kids and that stupid wombat!


So lately I have been working on aliens, and working on a group alien project with my friends. If anyone knows me from my fandom account they may remember a watchdog singer character I had called Bing named after Bing Crosby.

Through that I came up with a version of Bing as an original character not tied to WOY and hence the SECOND Bing was born.
His species are shape shifting heads, where most of them work in retail or as a butler and maid. They have a default head form per person, and change their heads depending on their job or mood. His species is perfectly content doing something productive, and they’re a little like organic robots where to have a directive makes them happy and organized.

Bing on the other hand desires to sing, and has a crooner voice like those of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby, which he tries to wander around getting small gigs to sing, but it never pans out for him. So he ends up working multiple jobs, sometimes at once in one day. He’s hard working and tries his very best at any job he’s given, but his dream is to be on stage and sing. He tends to fall into love headfirst, being pinned a hopeless romantic, but most relationships haven’t gone that far. There is a particular flower lady friend who works at a tea place, but he’s too bashful to approach her about a date. I’ll probably do her design next.
My friends and I are working on perhaps a blog to post and have them interact, maybe! But for now I’m posting him here because why not.
Bing © EnjolqueJ (I can actually say this now aaaa)

I put Cassandra in a dress
(now I run for my life)


The thing is… I work better alone.
I work better alone, too.


120: “When I was young, Grandfather told me I must have a thankful heart. Being able to become a celebrity today, I am especially fortunate. I am able to receive so much love from the fans and have some small fame, so all the more I must be thankful. When I received news of this, no matter what, I must attend this charity event.”

i was feelin crumby one day so i drew stevonnie and then i felt better ;v;

(better quality version of the one on instagram)

sterek au: record halestiles sees a help wanted sign in the window of the record shop derek owns.

happy birthday to my tumblr bff, foreverblue-navy! you are the best and deserve all the awards for putting up with my fandom whining and ranting and flailing, and all my real life stuff too. thanks for being my cheerleader and my friend <3 since this is one of many sterek aus i’ve promised to write you, i thought i’d give you a taste of your “derek owns a record store” idea until i have time to turn it into a proper fic :D


Stiles is walking towards the coffee shop on the corner, counting the change in his pocket and hoping he has enough for even the smallest cup of coffee. But he’s distracted when the hand-written HELP WANTED sign in the nearby window catches his eye. The script is messy, written in a thick black marker. The store sign painted on the window simply reads Records. Plain. Understated.

Stiles looks at the change in his palm, fifty cents short of a basic cup of black coffee, and enters the store. How hard could the job be? Nobody even listens to records anymore.

The store is small and cluttered, but in a homey sort of way. Shelves upon shelves of vinyl lined the walls, and crates were sitting randomly in the floor. There is a guy on the floor with huge headphones plugged into a turntable, listening to a record and bobbing his head. A couple of girls are browsing through the shelves.

As Stiles makes his way towards the back, he catches sight of a display of cassette tapes, and is that – omg 8tracks. Stiles leans on the counter, taking it all in while he waits for someone to notice he’s there. The song playing overhead is familiar. Some seventies rock song he thinks his mom used to listen to.

He’s combing through his internal music database when an extremely hot guy walks out from the back. He’s wearing a black Johnny Cash t-shirt, a loose grey cardigan pushed up to his elbows, and tight jeans. Stiles tries not to slip in his drool. It’s no better when he raises his eyes and sees dark stubble and black, thick-rimmed glasses. He has to work here, his sex life demands it.

“Can I help you?” The man sounds more angry than helpful, and Stiles wonders if trying to apply for a job in a tiny, hipster record shop while wearing his lego Spiderman t-shirt was the best idea.

The man is still glaring, so Stiles stupidly blurts out, “Is this America?”

The guy’s eyebrows furrow as he looks at Stiles like he’s an idiot. “I mean, the song, not the country. I mean, duh, I know we live in America. ‘Ventura Highway,’ I think?” The man nods, but says nothing else. Stiles can’t stop from staring at his eyes, so bright and odd behind the spectacles. After a few awkward, silent moments, the main raises his eyebrows in question. Stiles is pretty sure he has spoken more with his eyebrows in the last few minutes than with words. “I was here to apply for the job.”

“It’s yours.” The man turns and starts back inside the back room. “Be here tomorrow at 11.”

“Wait!” Stiles yells, and the man halts in the doorway and glances over his shoulder. “That’s it? I just get it like that? No application, no interview, no social security number and references and tedious work history?”

“Do you want the job or not?” the man asks, exasperated.

“Yes!” Stiles exclaims, and the man looks like he’s already regretting his decision. “But why?”

The man shrugs and points to the ceiling. “America. You’re the first person who came in here who recognized my music and didn’t wax poetically about how shit like Bruno Mars and Katy Perry is actually fucking music or try to impress me by mentioning some hipster bullshit like Radiohead, LCD Soundsystem, or goddamn Lana del Rey.”

The man disappears into the back, and Stiles is left there, mouth agape.


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Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Final Bows in ‘Hamilton’ on Broadway (NYT):

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s final bows for his farewell performance in “Hamilton” on Saturday night seemed routine, if overly humble for the departure of the show’s star and mastermind. He even shared his bows with the other cast members also exiting the show, including Phillipa Soo and the Tony winner Leslie Odom Jr.

But then the theme song to “The West Wing” kicked in from the orchestra pit.

Mr. Miranda giggled and took a couple of shy bows, only to turn around and be embraced then pushed back to the front of the stage by Christopher Jackson, who plays George Washington, for a proper bow.

Still, the curtain call lasted no more than two and a half minutes, despite fervent applause, which had been consistent throughout the night. The opening number received multiple standing ovations, as did many others. But Mr. Miranda and other performers would pause for only a minute each time before moving the show forward.

Afterward, in the pouring rain, hundreds and hundreds of fans filled West 46th Street, waiting for Mr. Miranda to emerge from the stage door at the Richard Rodgers Theater.

Instead, Mr. Miranda appeared, “Evita”-like, on a balcony atop the theater’s marquee. Holding an umbrella and waving to fans, he paced from one side of the marquee to the other, occasionally stopping to hold his left hand over his heart to show gratitude.

Then he was gone.

“It’s over, folks,” a police officer yelled as he tried to keep the crowd out of the street. “There’s no more.”