casey can art

10

Dans gonna have to buy phil one of those backpack stuffed animals with a leash on it for american tatinof, he cant even keep track of him on the damn tube

I found a screenshot of a tweet that made me laugh that I took a while ago but now im realizing its fake, credit to @fakephan_tweets (on twitter i’m assuming) for a brilliant idea that has probably actually happened irl lets be honest


***Bonus points: reblog with what dan based story you think phil was telling that poor random old lady***


EDIT: Credit to the brilliant and lovely @destihelp on Instagram!!! go check her out!!! 

So I wrote something for an Original story I'm working on

The first thing I want to get out there, is that I’m not a good person. That’s not something bashfully said with flushed face to someone I admire to accept brownie points and pretend that- what? The pity they show in their face, in the depths of their eyes is love? It’s not something I say so that you’ll believe I’m a not a bad person.
                Although, if you want to delude yourself I won’t stop you; and I am a little grateful. Or I would be, if that wasn’t the textbook definition of a stubborn pig.

When someone says they’re a bad person I find it incredibly stupid to dig your heels in and go, ‘don’t say that, no you’re not’ if you really don’t know whether that person has good intentions or not.

Fuck you, what if I want to blow up an orphanage because I believe that we’re over populating?

But, that- that’s not what this is about. I am a bad person, and it took some time for me to realize that; what with all this people pulling back my reins going ‘whoa there girl, you might want to slow down. Don’t jump to conclusions, okay?’.

How about no?

I am selfish, and vain, and just plain. Wicked. I was literally born to selfishness and greed. The only reason it doesn’t seem so bad is because I can acknowledge it- so no, you’re fucking wrong and stop being so damn predictable and telling me I’m not before you even know what’s going on in my head.
                Our head, I guess it would be.

Rough black feathers, scratching you in the night as the rain falls and chills you to the bone; compared to silken blankets, and sunlight keeping you warm from the moisture outside. That miserable sinking feeling in your gut, that feeling of acid growing up and crawling over your  stomach lining with the smell of headaches that washes around you. Compared to soft primed nails, gently grazing patterns on your skin as a voice hums your favorite song in the pitch that’s as close to perfect as you dare to tread, while laying on summer grass, somewhat slick from the heat; people laughing and telling stories and there’s nowhere you’d rather be.
                When put like that it’s easy to know which one you aren’t. I know unconsciously in the back of your mind, you made a little tally while reading. “Oh, that’s me.”             
               That line can be interested in anyway, be it a sullen, hollow voice as they find that they’re the former.

Or a relieved, breathy sigh as they conclude- yes- I am a good person.

Well, now that we have that out of the way, and we’re all agreed on what’s what, there is one other thing you must know- I am not supposed to be alive.