fiend for the clean

Some “Class 1-A family dorm life” headcanons!

  • Kirishima is the designated spider killer, except he doesn’t kill them, he takes them outside. If someone freaks out they might bite him, he just hardens his hands and grins reassuringly.
  • If someone screams “KAMINARI” in a tone of pure panic, everyone else knows that the person’s laptop or phone is about to die and they haven’t saved their work. Kaminari will vault couches to get to them. It’s probably the most heroic he gets to be on a semi daily basis.
  • Bakugou and Satou are teeth cleaning fiends. They always scold or remind their classmates to brush.
  • It’s second nature for everyone to remove drinks or breakable objects from around Iida when he gets into talking. They don’t even notice anymore.
  • If Shouji isn’t around, Ochako is the second person they go to for getting things down from tall places because she can just float to it.
  • One time Ochako, Iida, Izuku and Todoroki were all out shopping, and Ochako found a great deal (like, great deal) on some kind of frozen food. But it was so warm out that she was worried it would thaw before they got back. Cue a puzzled (but totally fine with it) Todoroki keeping it cold on their way back to the dorms.
  • Bakugou has a little spot in the kitchen reserved for his hot sauces. Someone (read: everyone) keeps adding new kinds to it when he’s not looking. He’s secretly pleased even if he’s pissed he can’t seem to catch anyone in the act.
  • Momo makes fidget toys for everyone around exam times. She carefully personalizes them to stand up to everyone’s Quirks.
  • The boys love to go to Jirou for playlists to work out to. She makes the best ones.

Trails End

You’ve read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you’re still in need;
of something to read,
here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I’m sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they’re not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pigeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
“I’ll never be free,
so I’ll meet a few of them in hell”

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it’s fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can’t find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
“I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we’d make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped”

The police haven’t got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,“Don’t start any fights;
we aren’t working nights,
we’re joining the NRA.”

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they’re invited to fight,
by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They’ve been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

- ‘Trails End’, a poem written by infamous 1930’s outlaw Bonnie Parker. Alongside her lover Clyde Barrow she robbed convenience stores and killed police officers before being gunned down

Found. pt 2

“AUNYT CLAIRE! MAM!”
Claire and Jenny glanced at each other, the urgency in Wee Ian’s shout sending sparks of alarm through each of them, before simultaneously dropping the dough and running into the court yard.
“Bree!”
Claire ran toward the children, both caked in mud and dirt and looking thoroughly dishevelled. Bree was leaning against Ian for support, face white as a sheet, her legs trembling.
“What happened?”
She asked, running her hands across her daughter’s slender frame checking for any direct injury.
“I fainted Mama.”
Bree’s voice was barely above a whisper and her eyes were glazed. Ian shifted his weight and licked his lips, avoiding his own mother’s eyes.
“Ian, are ye well mo chridhe?”
Jenny laid a gentle hand on her son’s cheek; concern overriding any other emotion, though Ian knew as soon as he told her where they’d been that was likely to change.
“I dinna feel verra well Mam…”
Ian allowed his eyes to droop, in truth he was bone tired and so it was not exactly an act but also there was no way he was doing the telling all by himself either. He would just have to wait for Bree to feel better and then they could do it together.
Claire turned her attention to him and lifted each of his eyelids in turn
“Did either of you hit your heads?”
“I dinna think so … Bree clipped my chin …”
Ian turned his head to let his Aunty see the bruise, not really thinking about it.
“Claire?”
Jamie and Robbie appeared from around the side of the house, no doubt having come from the privy, Ian thought dimly.
“What’s happened?”
Ian grimaced; if Uncle Jamie was asking he doubted that an explanation was going to be able to wait any longer.
“We don’t know yet, it seems the wee loons have been scrapping and may have knocked what wee bit o’ sense they had out o’ each other.”
Jenny answered as Claire continued to prod and poke at the children without much response save a squeak from Ian as she felt across his ribs.
“Da…”
Bree blinked as if waking and looked up at her father. Jamie’s brows knitted together and he squatted down before them both, next to Claire.
“Are ye hurt then?”
Jamie asked softly and Bree shook her head. Piercing blue eyes met with Ian’s and the same question was asked. Ian shook his head mutely, wondering exactly how much longer these gentle proceedings were going to go on. Robbie toddled forward and pressed his little palm to Bree’s chest, the highest point on his sister he could reach.
“Poor Bwee.”
He muttered and wrapped his arms around her middle. Brianna smiled vacantly down at her little brother and ruffled his hair.
“Hi Robbie.”
Jamie seemed to make up his mind about something and gave a short nod.
“Right, into the house.”
“I dinna think Bree should walk on her own Uncle. She took a bad spill.”
Ian tried to sound manly and commanding but his voice cracked embarrassingly and he felt heat creep into his face.
Jamie nodded to his nephew and gently scooped Brianna up into his arms, carrying her into the kitchen. Once settled at the table, cups of strong tea half drunk and slices of bread and butter eaten, Jamie cleared his throat and folded his hands on the table top.
“I would be most obliged if ye could please explain what ye have been up to and why ye have been fighting this time.”
He shifted his gaze between each of the children. Brianna was still a little pale but looking much better and Ian seemed almost completely restored to his usual cheerful countenance, although his expression wavered as Jamie spoke.
“We weren’t fighting Da … well … I did punch Ian but …”
“Brianna, if ye dinna consider that fighting…”
Jamie began but trailed off, he meant to allow them a chance to explain at the very least. It wasn’t fair to interrupt.
“I asked if Aunty Claire was a Fae.”
Ian mumbled, eyes fixed on the table. He heard his uncle take a sharp intake of breath and winced but it was his aunty who spoke.
“It’s a fair question Ian, in truth I don’t know. I don’t think I am but…”
Claire shrugged and Ian wished the ground would swallow him whole
“It’s not that I’d mind Aunty and I meant no insult, I just … wondered.”
He finished lamely and kept his eyes firmly on the table for fear that the stare coming from his uncle might turn him to ash on the spot.
“It was my fault Da. I … I did something I shouldn’t have and then I went somewhere I shouldn’t have and Ian followed me.”
Bree spoke quietly but raised her chin defiantly, meeting her father’s eyes with more boldness than she felt. Ian jerked beside her, startled, and frowned.
“I’m no’ a sheep Bree!”
He turned his gaze reluctantly to his Uncle, although his eyes flicked towards Jenny stood over Jamie’s right shoulder.
“I went to the millpond wi’ Bree and …”
He took a breath and then let it out in a rush of words
“IsuggestedwegotothefaerietreeandwedidandBreefainted…”
“Slow down. Ye what?”
Jamie held up his hand, a smile playing in the corner of his mouth anger fading as quickly as it had flared.
“We went to see the faerie tree, Da.”
Bree answered, shrugging helplessly. There was no sense in lying or excusing it.
“Brianna!”
Claire shook her head and sighed.
“Ye were told …”
“I know Da, I know we were.”
Bree was still looking at her mother and Claire got the sense that there was something more to come. A sense that Jamie clearly had too.
“We’ll deal wi’ those two things in a moment, what else is there? Ian ye look like ye’re about to wet ye breeks, do ye need to relieve yeself?”
Ian shook his head and bit his lip. Despite the trouble they were clearly in, excitement was bubbling in his chest and he didn’t think he could contain it much longer
“We found something at the Faerie tree!”
He gushed, a grin splitting his face despite himself.
“Ian James Murray, if ye ha’ taken an offering to the Fae …”
Jamie caught his sister’s arm as she made to move round the table, possibly to throttle her youngest child.
“I do sincerely hope ye havena interfered wi’ things left there.”
He said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low pitch.
“Ah … weel …”
Ian floundered and looked at Bree imploringly
“It was left there for me.”
She said quietly and all the adults turned their attention to her.
“What do ye mean?”
Jamie frowned. It was not like Brianna to be conceited in anyway, but thinking that a grieving mother might have left tribute for *her* …
Brianna looked directly at Claire
“The tree was alive Mama, like the stones. It was humming … Ian heard it too. It … it called me.”
The hairs on the back of Claire’s neck stood upright and she could see the fine copper hairs on the back of Jamie’s neck doing likewise. Claire was vaguely aware of both Jamie and Jenny crossing themselves but her attention was strictly on her daughter.
“Ye heard it too Ian?”
Jenny’s brow creased in concern and Jamie caught her hand in his own, squeezing reassuringly
“I did Mam, but it didna make me feel queer like it did Bree.”
Claire was still watching Bree.
“Did you touch it?”
“No Mama, but it gave me this …”
Bree reached into her satchel and produced the little tin, placing it on the table in front of the adults.
“It gave you…?”
Claire frowned at her daughter, not fully understanding
“It … guided me to it Mama, I don’t know why but it did.”
Claire leant past Jamie and picked up the little tin with her right hand, the silver of her ring grating gently against the metal, her left hand stilling him as his body jerked forward, instinctively moving to shield her.
“Have you opened it?”
“No, I found it and then I fainted and Ian carried me away. He brought me home.”
Bree flashed a grateful smile at her cousin and Ian returned it shyly.
“It was more o’ a drag.”
He murmured bashfully and Jenny snorted.
“Aye weel at least ye had that much sense to get away from the thing.”
Jamie made an approving noise at the back of his throat and softened the look he had been giving his nephew considerably.
“Aye, good lad.”
Claire looked down at the tin and her heart skipped a beat. There was no mistaking the etching, it was clearly an Underwood typewriter, this tin had probably been used to hold spare ink or maybe even replacement keys but regardless what it held it was not of this time.
Jamie didn’t bother looking at the tin; a glance at Claire’s face told him all he needed to know.
“Maybe take it to the study Sassenach?”
He murmured
“But I want to see …”
Ian began but bit the words off as two identical sets of narrowed blue eyes turned on him, neither of them boding well. His Uncle at least looked a little impressed, his mother not so much.
“Ye will be stayin’ here wi’ ye cousin and gettin’ a bath, then ye will be goin’ to ye room an’ waitin’ for ye Da.”
Jenny snapped, and levelled a finger at both children.
“Dinna try me any further than ye already have.”
She turned to Claire and Jamie and set her jaw stubbornly.
“If ye ha’ need o’ me I’ll be here wi’ the bairns.”
“Thank ye Jenny,”
Jamie stood and walked around the table, Ian flinched but Brianna held steady looking up at her father with a tired but resolute expression. Jamie bent stiffly at the waist and cupped her face in his hands, planting a kiss in the centre of her forehead, heedless of the grime.
“Fhuair mi faochadh the thu, mo nighean.”
Ian let out the breath he had been holding and Jamie gave him a small smile and ruffled his hair.
“Ye too, mo pheathar.”
“Aye we all are, now get ye gone so I can clean the wee fiends up a mite bit.”
Jenny spoke gruffly but as she urged her niece and son toward the fireplace to undress her hands were gentle and she offered a quiet prayer of thanks that neither were harmed.
*
Claire placed the tin on Jamie’s desk and together they contemplated it.
“Ye ken what that is then Sassenach?”
Jamie asked, his voice low.
“I do, it’s a typewriter. A device invented in the mid-nineteenth century I believe, it is like a very small, personal printing press.”
Jamie pursed his lips.
“Another traveller then?”
Claire nodded. She felt a certain level of detachment looking at the object, as if she were standing back and observing someone else dealing with it.
“I didn’t know there were stones like Craigh na Dun near here.”
She said absently. Jamie shook his head
“There arena any. I should ken them if there were.”
“The fairy tree?”
Jamie shrugged as if his shirt was suddenly too tight
“It’s an ancient tree to be sure but I ha’ never ken any mysterious disappearances near it nor legends that speak o’ such things, or at least nout beyond the usual …”
Claire ran a finger along the edge of the tin and making up her mind, pushed the lid upwards. It squeaked against the rust that had crusted its hinges but opened easily enough. Inside was a carefully bundled piece of leather and a silver fountain pen. Claire smiled faintly; she had never thought to see such a thing again. She handed the pen to Jamie, who took it with more than a little reluctance.
“What is it?”
“A fountain pen, like a quill but neater and more reliable.”
Claire smiled, twisting the lid off to expose the nib.
“Do ye dip it in ink?”
“No, the ink is already inside it.”
Intrigued, Jamie reached for a scrap of parchment and bent to test it.
“You only need to press very lightly…”
Claire cautioned and Jamie obediently followed, gripping the pen a little awkwardly, more used to the narrow shaft of feather. He gave an excited whoop of delight as his cursive appeared as if by magic.
Still smiling Claire turned her attention back to the little leather pouch. There was a trace of scent that was somehow familiar. It had been stronger when she first opened the box but now, exposed to the air, it was dissipating fast.
The leather was loosely bound; whoever had left it was confident of the strength of the tin and its ability to provide shelter, if not keep out all damp. Inside was a small square of card, face down, which Claire knew to be a photo by the feel of it and a folded letter. She placed the photo, still face down in the tin and unfolded the letter. As her eyes took in the familiar penmanship and the words written, she felt the room around her spin and sat down hard in the chair behind her. Jamie was by her side in an instant, new toy forgotten and left in carefully dissected pieces on his desk.
“Sassenach?”
His eyes searched her face intently and Claire held the letter out for his inspection by means of answer. Jamie frowned and took the small piece of paper, flimsier than parchment and thinly lined to aide whoever was writing, he supposed.
Tearing his eyes from Claire’s pale, staring countenance he turned his attention to the letter.

My dearest, dearest Claire,
There is slim chance of you ever reading this letter but I feel I must write it in any case. I am so dreadfully sorry I did not have a chance to say goodbye to you. It was rather sudden and …anyway my dearest, you will be fine. The efforts of day to day living often distract us from what we should be most focused on and we forget to say the simplest of things so I say them now, in a letter you most likely will never read but at least one of us will know I DID say them: I love you my darling girl, and I am as proud of you as any uncle, or father for that matter, has ever been.
The stones have taken much from you … well I don’t truly know how much but I always thought a car wreck to be suspicious… But I do hope, with every fibre of my being that one day the stones will give you joy in as great a measure as they have taken. That may mean someone makes a journey to you, or possibly you to them. Either way embrace it my dear, you deserve all the happiness in the world.
All my love,
Goodbye.
Q.L.B

Jamie put down the small sheet and looked across at Claire, his mouth suddenly dry. She sat rigid in the chair, tears falling silently down her cheeks. Slowly he gathered her up from the chair and sat himself in it, pulling her onto his lap as he had all those years before at Leoch, soothing her and letting her use him as an anchor to cling to.
A little while later, when Claire had exhausted her tears and had mopped her face on a quietly offered handkerchief, Jamie lifted his chin from her head and smiled weakly down at her.
“Ye did say as that ye uncle was an interestin’ man, no?”
Claire snorted and wiped her nose on the handkerchief.
“Not the word I’d choose right this second, but yes.”
“What did he mean by ‘car wreck’?”
Claire shivered and Jamie pulled her tightly against himself
“My parents.”
She whispered and Jamie’s arms tightened even further around her, absorbing her pain as best he could.
“When do ye think …”
Jamie bit the words off as he felt Claire stiffen and mentally kicked himself for his thoughtlessness. There would be a time for such questions but that time would be decided by Claire; she would seek the questions and their answers when she was ready.
“I don’t know and I am not sure how I could even begin to find out but …”
Claire shook her head sadly and then balled her fists, leaping to her feet and whirling to face him with such ferocity Jamie felt his heart skip and to his shame, his cock harden.
“Jamie, I am so bloody tired of the past and of fucking mystery! I just want to be here with you and our children and Jenny and Ian and the rest of the Murray’s … the rest of our family!
She picked up the letter and stuffed it into the tin, slamming the lid down hard.
“I just want to be … normal!”
Claire’s voice cracked on the last word and Jamie stood from the chair, coming to stand before his wife with hands outstretched to meet hers.
“Ah, weel, no’ to disappoint ye Sassenach, but ne’er in a thousand years, could ye ever be considered ‘normal’ ye are far too special for such a thing mo duinne.”
Claire returned his slanted smile with a small tug of her lips.
“I’m so sorry Jamie.”
“What for lass? Ye’ve done me no’ wrong!”
“I complicate your life at every turn!”
Claire cried, her voice rising in agitation but Jamie didn’t alter his smile.
“Ah. Aye, that ye do. But I ha’ a fair notion that I’d manage to do so, e’en wi’out ye and given the choice Sassenach, I would always rather ha’ ye by my side.”
Jamie smoothed a stray curl back from her face and placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
“The stones will give you joy in as great a measure as they have taken.”
Claire murmured her breath warm and faintly sweet on his mouth.
“He got that much right, they truly have.”
She stroked a hand down her husband’s cheek and for a moment both of them were transported over the years.
“Blood of my blood.”
Jamie whispered and Claire answered him as she always had and always would
“Bone of my bone.”

2

#recoverychallenge

Active addiction vs. recovery. I stumbled on the first picture by accident, and my heart broke a little bit. Addiction was so messy and chaotic. I look at that picture, and remember all the overdoses, all the seizures, and how close to death I really was. And with that being said, I couldn’t imagine ever going back to that. I wouldn’t want to live life any other way than I am today. Coming up on a year clean, and I am so grateful that I chose life before the disease of addiction took it from me. For anyone struggling with addiction right now, just know that if a down bad dirty dope fiend like me can get clean literally anyone can. We do recover.

Suck it up Saturday

Running around cleaning the house like a fiend this morning and then the cooking will start this afternoon. Gotta color Eggs too. Jim is grocery shopping while I clean.

I invited any of our Resident Artists who aren’t going home for Easter to come to dinner and play in the BARn afterwards. So it’s dusting, vacuuming, cleaning bathrooms and dishes (not at the same time) this morning. Cuz I work 40+ hours a week! Who has time to do it then!

On the menu:

Ham (yuck-not a fan)
Potatoes au gratin
Butternut bisque

Devilled Eggs
Pickles and Olives
Nacho Pie and chips
Stuffed Celery
Stuffed mushrooms

Strawberry shortcake for dessert

Wine and Watermelon margaritas

And I think the RAs are bringing fruit salad and even more munchies!

There will be no Starving Artists tomorrow!

Bruce would be at his wits’ end with Damian and punish him with cleaning the ENTIRE Manor.
But joke’s on him because Damian spends most of his free time with Alfred and has been cleaning the Manor regardless so he even knows the proper way to fold a fitted sheet.
Imagine Alfred and Damian in the kitchen, cooking (Damian has a little splotch of flour on his cheek).
Imagine Alfred and Damian dusting, employing Titus by wrapping a duster to his tail so when it wags back and forth it cleans the low walls.
Imagine Alfred and Damian window washing, Alfred inside and Damian outside, hanging by a rope connected to the roof’s chimney.
And it’s basically Bruce against the Cleaning Fiends. (And Alfred spoils Damian very badly, so he can nearly always wheedle his way with Alfred against Bruce. It’s shameful and yet very adorable.)

Hey, son, this is your father, don’t mean to bother.
How are you?
Heard you were in town, but I never saw ya.
Tried to call ya, where are ya?
In Paris? What a beautiful destination.
In Paris, right by the Eiffel, come now, please don’t be spiteful
Of all my small talk, I think we’re overdue a long talk.
When I see kids around the way I say how I’m your dad.
It gets me thinking of incredible moments we’ve had.
And on the real, I’m trying so hard not to bug you.
But do you think you could stop rapping about my drug use?
I’m two years clean, no longer a fiend.
Yeah, I’m 57, but I feel 19.
And I love you I swear, Bobby, I know you’re there.
And when the time is right I know that you gon’ take care
Of anything I need, of your family
Can I have some tickets to your next show?
Would you stand with me?
Can I have some money for my new honey that’s hella fine?
I forgot to mention I got divorced from your step-mom
My mind going crazy, but I still look hella calm.
Maybe you could tell
I’ve been feeling under pressure.
—  “Under Pressure”
-Logic
Album: Under Pressure
The Trails End

You’ve read the story of Jesse James of how he lived and died. If you’re still in need; of something to read, here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde. Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang I’m sure you all have read. how they rob and steal; and those who squeal, are usually found dying or dead. There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups; they’re not as ruthless as that. their nature is raw; they hate all the law, the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats. They call them cold-blooded killers they say they are heartless and mean. But I say this with pride that I once knew Clyde, when he was honest and upright and clean. But the law fooled around; kept taking him down, and locking him up in a cell. Till he said to me; “I’ll never be free, so I’ll meet a few of them in hell” The road was so dimly lighted there were no highway signs to guide. But they made up their minds; if all roads were blind, they wouldn’t give up till they died. The road gets dimmer and dimmer sometimes you can hardly see. But it’s fight man to man and do all you can, for they know they can never be free. From heart-break some people have suffered from weariness some people have died. But take it all in all; our troubles are small, till we get like Bonnie and Clyde. If a policeman is killed in Dallas and they have no clue or guide. If they can’t find a fiend, they just wipe their slate clean and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde. There’s two crimes committed in America not accredited to the Barrow mob. They had no hand; in the kidnap demand, nor the Kansas City Depot job. A newsboy once said to his buddy; “I wish old Clyde would get jumped. In these awfull hard times; we’d make a few dimes, if five or six cops would get bumped” The police haven’t got the report yet but Clyde called me up today. He said,“Don’t start any fights; we aren’t working nights, we’re joining the NRA.” From Irving to West Dallas viaduct is known as the Great Divide. Where the women are kin; and the men are men, and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde. If they try to act like citizens and rent them a nice little flat. About the third night; they’re invited to fight, by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat. They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate they know that the law always wins. They’ve been shot at before; but they do not ignore, that death is the wages of sin. Some day they’ll go down together they’ll bury them side by side. To few it’ll be grief, to the law a relief but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

~By: Bonnie Parker

dulcetyeoll  asked:

Once you get this, you have to say five things you like about yourself, publicly. Then you have to send this to ten of your favourite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool~)

T______T I don’t like anything about myself…. huhuhuh 

my cat is cool 

my kd tag is everything

i’m good at making the bed

my room is clean

I kick ass at best fiends 

that’s it -___- lol 

Round Faces

Justine ran into our room around 3 a.m. again. Third time this week. She was screaming and sobbing about the “things with round faces” staring at her from the window. I turned on the lamp and looked over at Carla, whose scowl was telling me it was my turn. So, off I went with Justine into her bedroom. No monsters. I kissed her forehead and told her to go back to sleep.

Carla headed off to work the next morning and brought Justine to school on the way. I was left at home, like usual, to clean and do other housewifely chores. It’s not that I particularly minded; Carla makes great money and we both agreed it’d be good for Justine to have one of her moms around when she got home from school. Still, it was boring to be all alone in the house for so many hours of the day. Cleaning like a fiend helped, though. I like to keep the place spotless.

Once I’d finished the downstairs, I trudged up the steps and took care of our room and the bathroom. As I cleaned Justine’s, I noticed the window nearest her bed had some nasty smudges on the outside. Greasy stuff. I took the Windex and leaned out the window and got as much of it off as I could. I figured a bird must’ve hit it or something. When the outside was clean, I closed the window and saw it was still greasy. It took me a second to realize the same stuff was also on the inside. I made a mental note to ask Justine what the hell she was playing with, which I promptly forgot about.

Keep reading

@ceasepain has answered the call

Another of the abyssal hounds broke under Chaoseater, the massive blade and the heavy hand that swung it slicing the fiend clean in two. Bisected halves fell to the grass, smoking as they dissolved into the clear afternoon air. The pack howled and surged, rushing the Horseman, who bellowed and swung his great sword about. It whistled eerily as it cut through the air, as if some bloodthirsty spirit was slaking itself on their aggression, their wrath. 

Each one broke under his blows, and no matter how many raked claw and fang at his armor and cloak, unclean blood scattering in droplets across the grass, he struck down each with a well-placed smite of his blade. He was the Rider of the Red Horse; it would take more than these creatures to give him pause.

You’ve read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you’re still in need;
of something to read,
here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I’m sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they’re not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
“I’ll never be free,
so I’ll meet a few of them in hell”

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it’s fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can’t find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
“I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we’d make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped”

The police haven’t got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,“Don’t start any fights;
we aren’t working nights,
we’re joining the NRA.”

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won’t “stool” on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they’re invited to fight,
by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They’ve been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

—  Bonnie Parker, The Trail’s End
Is it weird

Is it weird I really like eating pussy? Not on no any and everybody shit but when your mine I’ll slurp you up for breakfast and come back for seconds before my plates clean. I fiend for the moment you scream stop while squeamishly pulling my head away from your crown jewel so that I can pull you back and feel you thighs shake against my ears. After a long day at work don’t worry about cooking because what I want to eat is always got and ready. Sit on my face, bend over and show me it from the back how ever you want it I’ll serve it. Just know there’s always a round 3 cause 2 is never enough.

The Trail's End

You’ve read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you’re still in need;
of something to read,
here’s the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I’m sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they’re not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pidgeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
‘I’ll never be free,
so I’ll meet a few of them in hell’

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn’t give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it’s fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can’t find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There’s two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
'I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awfull hard times;
we’d make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped’

The police haven’t got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,'Don’t start any fights;
we aren’t working nights,
we’re joining the NRA.’

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won’t 'stool’ on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they’re invited to fight,
by a sub-gun’s rat-tat-tat.

They don’t think they’re too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They’ve been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they’ll go down together
they’ll bury them side by side.
To few it’ll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it’s death for Bonnie and Clyde.

Bonnie Parker

Storytime

Once upon a time there was a queen who lived in new York. However she wasn’t a regular queen. She was the dope-fiend queen. She was only 17 but she loved snorting many lines of dope at a time and would shoot fire dope into her veins. She was running shit till some bitch snitched and now she’s sad and clean and not a fiend. She has hope but longs for dope.