hole in the bag

When exo goes trick or treating

Suho : Ate all 500 pieces of candy at the same time and throws up for the next 3 days

Chen : has a hole in his trick or treating bag and doesn’t even notice it

Lay : someone fucked up giving him all liquor candies and now Is tipsy af

Baekhyun : *exo members enters dorm* “Thanks for bringing me candy servants” *gets tied up,gagged with a jaw breaker and locked in the toilet*

Chanyeol : picks up all the candy that leaked from Chen’s bag and doesn’t even tell him that there’s a hole in his bag

Kyungsoo : broke all his teeth biting into a jaw breaker

Xiumin : overdosed on candy corn and now is laying on the floor listening to overdose knowing this song was made for him for this exact Moment in his life

Kai : tries to trade in all his candy in for a thick fat juicy piece rotisserie chicken

Sehun : is the one that made a hole in Chen’s bag and wonders where all the leaked candy went

People around the world use more than a trillion plastic bags every year. They’re made of a notoriously resilient kind of plastic called polyethylene that can take decades to break down.

But the humble wax worm may hold the key to biodegrading them.

It was an accidental discovery. Scientist and beekeeper Federica Bertocchini was frustrated to find that her beehives were infested with the caterpillar larvae of Galleria mellonella, commonly known as a wax worm.

Bertocchini, who works at the Institute of Biomedicine and Biotechnology of Cantabria in Spain, tells NPR that she was cleaning out the hive and put the worm-infested parts in a plastic bag.

But shortly afterward, she noticed that “they were all crawling around my place and the plastic bag was riddled with holes.”

The Lowly Wax Worm May Hold The Key To Biodegrading Plastic

Photo: Wayne Boo/USGS Bee Inventory and Monitoring Lab

Death by Gold

So my dnd group of 3 was fighting a Medusa. One of the PC was able to successfully grapple her and another PC put his Bag of Holding type 4 over her head to prevent her from turning the group into stone and to hopefully suffocate her to death (even with 10mins and all). Anyway, the Medusa didn’t like having a bag over her head and poked a hole in the bag…. whoops

Now as the DM, don’t really keep track of coins weight when it comes to travel, especially when one of the PC puts it in their Bag of Holding. And I didn’t really keep track of how much gold he had (just looted a large cash of gold from a dragon cave)

DM: ok the Medusa strikes a pierces the bag causing all of its contents to spew out. (OOC) what did you have in the bag?

PC: a bundle of arrows and sword and 200,000 GP

DM (OOC): what?!

Whole table starts to laugh

Well… 50 coins is 1 pound and soooo 200,000 would be…. 4,000 pounds!

DM: So the Medusa is crushed by 2 tons of gold as it dumps from the bag….

Easy, Transportable Needle Storage

I know I’ve seen the question of “how should I store my (especially circular and double pointed) knitting needles?” asked dozens of times. It’s also a question I’ve asked myself, and have tried a few different methods. This is my newest one, and I’m feeling pretty good about it so far. It’s pretty cheap, easy to transport, and totally re-sortable. All it requires is duct tape, plastic bags, and a binder.

My mom has hers in one of those over-the-door shoe organizers. I think that’s such a great idea, but as someone who’s in a much more transitional period of life, I wanted one that could move with me. My previous method was a roll-up with eyelets I knit. I liked it, but it would be difficult to reorganize, didn’t really accommodate my circulars well, and could be easily outgrown.

Thus, I started thinking I could buy a bunch of pencil pouches and putting my needles in them in a binder. But when I looked into it, pencil pouches are not as cheap as I’d hoped. I was thinking of getting 20, and they were going to cost at least a couple dollars per each one. But then my mom suggested hole punching ziploc bags instead, and I thought that was a great idea! So here’s how I put together this needle storage, which I imagine works great for double pointed needles, circular needles, and crochet needles, among other things.

These are the supplies I used:

A binder (I chose a fun colourful 1.5″ one with elastic ties, but any is probably fine) (if I was redoing this, though, I might choose a 2 prong one instead), duct tape (I decided on three colours, but you could certainly do this with regular cheap duct tape), plastic bags (I wanted ones with the sliders), and a 3 hole punch.

First, lay out a strip of duct tape, and lay the plastic bag on half the tape. The duct tape makes it easier to hole punch and makes the holes much stronger and less likely to rip.

Cut the tape and fold it over along the bag.

Hole punch the duct-taped edge. Since the bags I chose were only long enough for two holes, I alternated between holes on the top and holes on the bottom.

Then you can pop the bag in the binder.

Then I labelled each bag with a sharpie and put the needles in.

I decided to have one bag per size, except I did a separate bag for double pointed needles and circulars. Other than that, I just put it in order. If I get any new needles, I can make a new bag and put it in the right place.

Ta-da!

Now I have my needles all organized, accessible, and transportable. :)

On pricing your artwork:

I wrote this originally for Artist Alley Network International, but it struck a chord with a lot of people, so re-posting here!

——–

Your artwork, and your merchandise, is WORTH SOMETHING!

1. You are producing something no one else can.  Even if there are a hundred other similar items, only you are making artwork like you.  That is worth something even if you don’t immediately see it.

2. You aren’t walmart.  You are a small business owner and need to charge what you’re worth rather than race to the bottom to see who’s the cheapest.   This ties into #1… so what if someone else has acrylic charms for $3. You are the only one selling YOUR art, so price it at it’s worth.

3. Shipping, storage, packaging, presentation, and protection are all worth extra.  Your item may only cost $1.50 to produce, but you also spent .10 to upgrade the quality.  You spent .50 cents to ship it.  You spent another $1 on packaging, and you spent $30 on the display it’s on.  You rent your apartment or garage for $500-1500/mo.  Your table cost you $300 to rent.  Your online store charges you .20 cents per sale plus a transaction fee. Your item will sell at a loss if you sell it for $2 or $3, even if production was less than that.  Factor in all these costs when you sell your item.  PLUS, your worth.  If you spent hours making the design, you deserve some of that in compensation!

4. Perceived value is actual value.  Customers who see an artist where everything is $2-3 probably will perceive it as less valuable than the artist who sells everything from $20-30, even if the artist selling cheaper actually puts more time into their work.  Perceived value also will change the way a customer approaches your artwork.  Will they cherish it and save it and frame it, or will they punch holes through it with a thumbtack, or will they forget it’s in their bag and find it bent up hours later?  Sometimes pricing your art higher actually creates DEMAND, because it now looks like it’s worth something.

5. fast sketch does not necessarily = cheap price.  Did you spend money on your art education?  Are you experienced in your field?  Is there a lot of demand for your artwork?  Do you work professionally with many clients? Did it take you years and hours to develop your style and speed?  All of these are separate from how long it takes you to draw.  Which is why a 10 minute sketch might be worth $40 rather than minimum wage x time spent drawing.

6. We are all in this together.  If you fight with your neighbors on who can price art the cheapest to get the fastest sales, you are fighting a downhill battle which will ultimately make ALL of your artwork worth far less.  Instead, look at an artist and go “Wait a minute? They charge HOW MUCH?  That means I can charge that much, too”  When I sit in a row of artists charging what they’re worth, I notice that ALL of us make far more sales than if we underprice one another.
This also reflects in the market, too.  If a client who wants to charge $1000 for 24 illustrations is turned down by countless artists they’ll realize they have unrealistic expectations.  When people start seeing the $ sign, instead of factoring in their time and energy and take these low paying jobs, these clients will become upset when they see the artist they really wanted turning them down.  Obviously artists from different countries will price differently, BUT, if you’re selling to someone in a different country with a higher dollar value, ask for that higher value!  You’re competing against THEIR dollar rather than your country’s dollar at that point.  Same goes for pricing commissions online.

——-

Good luck everyone.  We’re all in this together!

🌳Behind a small round Hobbit door lies an entire universe. Who would have thought what adventures would come out of one single sentence, scribbled down on an empty exam paper.

Rosie had heard all of the stories about old mister Bilbo coming home with boxes and barrels of treasure. He had been gone so long everyone had assumed he was dead, but then he had ridden into town with gold in his pony’s saddlebags.

She dreamed about Sam coming home, a feather in his cap, gold tucked into the sensible pockets on his sensible pants. She dreamed about Sam coming home. They made jokes in the Green Dragon about young mad Mr. Baggins, just like his uncle old mad Mr. Baggins, who had run off with three gullible youngsters and gotten eaten by wolves.

Rosie watched her mother during the occupation, the ways she counted curly heads, the way she canned vegetables and fruits, salted meats, then bound them up in cloth and tucked them under each child’s bed, in the hollow in the tree down the road, buried out by Miller’s Pond. Rosie watched her father walk the edges of the property, like he was stomping his ownership into it. He kept his pitchfork sharp. He was preparing to fight for his home and her mother was giving them a way out.

Pippin and Merry came back taller; they would bump their foreheads on low doorways all their lives. Frodo came back wiser; he would feel lost on the wind until the day he stepped onto a creaking deck and let it sweep him away. Sam came back; he had grown, for all miles and hunger had worn him down to the quick.

When Sam came home, there was a feather in Pippin’s cap, a horn on Merry’s hip. All Sam had was a box of dirt with one large, smooth seed tucked inside. Even in Mordor, Sam had only been fighting for the Shire. He spent the rest of his life helping things grow.  


Let’s talk about Sam crying over rabbit stew, because a brace of coneys had been a spot of luck, once; because even then, even when he still had his pots and his pans, when Frodo had not yet snarled at him and told him to go– Mr. Frodo had still been gone too far by then to ever come back again.

Rosie, who did not cry easy, chopped onions so he would not be the only one with wet cheeks to scrub off. She asked him about herbs and spices, about stirring and cooking times, about what loaf would go best with it all. Sam said, “Rosemary, tarragon.” Part of him still rang against the greening metal of a copper pot dropped down a chasm and left somewhere on the edges of Mordor, but she saw him breathe deep and reach for thyme.  

When they brought Frodo a bowl in the little study that had once been Bilbo’s, Frodo warmed his hands in the steam and chuckled when he recognized the smell. Sam pressed his cheek into Rosie’s curls and remembered that not everything was lost.


Sam came back different, but Rosie had not stayed the same either.

Some nights Sam couldn’t sleep on the bed. He laid out with a blanket on the floor and apologized for it. She checked the locks three times, and didn’t trust them anyway. If men came to the door in the night, smashed through the window, set the house on fire– she knew three ways out. She knew the path she’d take through the forests and little hills, two good places to cross the water and three mediocre ones, how to gather and set snares and never have to come back.

She also knew that she would come back. Sam had gone out and met the world, but Rosie had stayed here and staked her claim.


Between helping with the reconstruction, clearing out abused hobbit holes, planting new trees, raising her children, and managing Bag End, Rosie took tea into Mr. Frodo’s little study and let him tell her about his story. 

Some days he sat up, waved his hands, talked about Moria like it was Mr. Bilbo telling hobbitlings about the three trolls. On others he muttered about language and conjugation, dialects of Elvish, and Rosie learned words for things she had never seen. One of her sons would be named for Frodo, and one of her daughters Elanor, for a flower that grew on the floor of a forest no hobbits but four had ever seen. 

He told her about Faramir and Boromir–their adventures, and their family trees to seven generations back. Rosie scattered her younger children over his study floor on those long afternoons, where they got cookie crumbs and sloppy paint all over the sheet she’d lain over his soft carpet. 

It was a late night, the kids abed, when he told her about Mordor, about Gollum and the eagles, and how Sam had not given up, even at the very end. She had come down to turn over some marinade in the pantry and found the study light on, Frodo bent over his desk and scribbling. “I have to get it all down,” he said, and smiled at her unhappily. “Too tired right now to be scared of it all.“ 

So she got some cocoa and a heavy quilt for each of them, and stayed to listen to him mutter and scratch out lines. “Frodo Nine-Fingered and Samwise the Brave,” he told her. “We talked about how we were going to be stories, one day.“ 

When Sam came down the hall in the morning, his wife’s curls were pooled on the desk beside Mr. Frodo’s, inked pages scattered under their cheeks and curled palms. Sam had watched Frodo earn each and every white hair on his head, and he was learning the stories still behind each tired crease and laugh line on Rosie’s face. Sam leaned against the door frame and watched them breathe, in and out, until the kids came shrieking down the hallway and woke them. 

The day Frodo gave him the Red Book and left, Sam cried on the shores of the sea and watched him go. Frodo had sat Rosie down that morning, over a breakfast of two eggs, thick bacon, hearty toast, a little salad– he had told Rosie he was leaving and Rosie had already known. 

There were still burned scars on the soft fertile ground of the Shire. Some of them would never grow over, no matter how many seeds they scattered and watered. Rosie still had emergency kits buried in the yard, tucked in hollow trees down the road, kept under her children’s beds. 

But there were strawberries growing in her window boxes, even if on the worst days she wasn’t sure if they’d be there to harvest them in springtime. On those days, Rosie padded down to the pantry and got out little glass jars of strawberry preserves. So many springs had come and gone, and so many would come again. There were some things you could carry with you. 

Drop your pots, drop your pans–lose weight, faith, a finger–forget the taste of strawberries. There were little white blossoms waiting in the window boxes of Bag End to turn into blushing red fruit. Sam had carried Frodo to the end of his journey, and Frodo had given her this home. The spring would come. 

Sam came back with salt crystallized on his hems and the edge of his jaw. He came back with a red book under one arm–no gold in his pockets, no gems, just his two hands tucked and curled in the warmth of them. 

Their children would read Frodo’s book as they grew (Bilbo’s book, too, and those few words that were their father’s). They would not understand, not all of it, not at first. They would eat strawberries in spring and dream of Fangorn, dare each other to brave the Old Forest on the edge of the Shire. They would climb all over Merry and Pippin’s tall frames and beg to go with them when they went to visit the kings of Gondor and Rohan. 

Rosie would eat strawberries in the spring. She would make jars and jars of jam to keep for long winters. She would keep kits of supplies, for emergencies, for invasions, for the children of hers who had wanderlust in their bare, woolly feet. 

On nights when she could not sleep–too cold, too stuffy, too old–she would pad out to Frodo’s old study and sit among the books and things. She would read about places she’d never seen, languages she’d never heard. She would write her own notes down about the Scouring– the first little resistances, and the final front lines. She would trace her fingers over loving maps of the Shire, tracing the ways out, the places to hide, the ways back. 

When she woke in the morning, her cheek on the old wood desk, a blanket would be draped around her shoulders and Sam would be asleep in an armchair, just close enough to reach out and touch. 

For the heck of it, I decided to rewrite and expand on my idea of how Coran figures out dealing with Slav.


The multi-armed alien is curled in a tight little ball under a console in the Lions’ hanger when Coran finds him, having been tipped off by Yellow and the muttered sound of dire predictions.

A strange fellow this Slav may be, but he knows how to deal with the sight of someone having bad nightmares, and very gently taps a hand clamped over an ear with one of the cold bottles he’s carrying. “Easy, it’s just me,” he says when that draws a yelp and a frenzied attempt to curl up even smaller. “Come out of there and rehydrate before you sweat yourself to nothing.”

“I have only a twelve per cent possibility of being able to die of dehydration in my current condition,” Slav mumbles, but slinks out of his hidey-hole nonetheless. 

The bags under his eyes are pretty spectacular.

Coran gently waves the offered bottle in front of his face, and Slav eyes it suspiciously before snatching it and cracking the seal, sniffing at the spicy-sweet contents. “Belai? Why would you keep this in stock?”

He shrugs. “It’s a good idea to be stocked for everything,” he says as if that actually answers the question instead of dodges it, and pretends not to notice the very obvious change in the way Slav looks at him.

Maybe he answered more accurately than he wanted to. Oh, well.

He takes a seat on a mechanic’s stool and his slithery little drinking buddy clambers up onto the console and takes a swig. “More bad dreams about other realms?” Coran asks once Slav has had enough that the question won’t send him into a complete frenzy.

“Oh, my, yes. Always. So many. And the percentages of them happening are so high. There is a ninety-eight per cent possibility that our rescue mission on Rurikora will end with seven children dead and ourselves in captivity. Eighty-six per cent-”

“Slav. Have you ever tried not thinking about the likely timelines?” Coran asks, and Slav looks up from his bottle with a head-tilt that reminds him of Allura when she was a toddler.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, try imagining something completely outlandish. Like… Pidge becoming Queen of the Turimonquans.”

Slav blinks at him, then snorts out a barking noise that sounds like a laugh. “But that only has an-”

“Don’t tell me the percentage.”

“W-what? But you said-”

Coran thinks, tapping a fingertip against his own bottle. “Tell me… tell me what her coronation outfit looks like.”

And that, he discovers, is the secret. Never talk about the percentages. Percentages bring anxiety, and an anxious, stressed Slav is a bundle of nervous energy that drives the entire crew off the handle. 

So instead, every time Coran gets that itch up the back of his neck that means a certain alien is somewhere in the Castle having a breakdown, he quietly fishes a couple of bottles of Belai out of the cooling chambers, digs Slav out of wherever he’s hiding-

-and they talk.

About other timelines, mostly. Worlds that never happened, or have the slimmest chances of happening. But never in percentages. Instead, Coran always asks for visions, images, what Slav sees as his mind reaches out into those pathways that wind before and behind them.

“There is a timeline where we all really do end up becoming space pirates,” Slav says as he rolls his bottle back and forth between his paws.

“Yeah?” Coran takes a drink. “What are you wearing for your pirating outfit?”

“For some reason, I have many, many earrings. I do not understand. It seems very inefficient to have so many earrings.”

“Maybe it makes you look tough.”

“Hm. I have always wondered what it would be like to be the frightening-looking one for a change.”

“I don’t understand how you can put up with him,” Allura mutters when she notices the alien curled up peacefully beside him in a snoozing lump. “If I have to kick him off the piloting controls one more time, I’m going to scream.”

Coran absently pets an ear, and Slav mutters in his sleep, not about probability, but about energy sails and swords. “Just have to give him the right outlet, that’s all.”

The moon signs when they’re emotional

Aries: I’M GOING TO PUNCH A WALL!!!!!! WHY DOES EVERYONE HAVE TO BE OUT TO GET ME???? CAN’T I LIVE??? I’M SO UPSET AND WHY DOES NO ONE CARE??? MY EMOTIONS ARE THE #1 PRIORITY RN!!!! *blames someone else for their problems* (5 minutes later is over it)

Taurus: why life wHY?????? I didn’t want to mOVE today let alone CRY *crawls into a hole full of blankets and sobs into a bag of chips*

Gemini: oh lol whatever idk why my eyes are wet but I’m just gonna ignore this and hope it’ll go away tomorrow

Cancer: I just love to fEeEeEeL things :(((((( I’m going to cry and think about the reasons why I’m crying and maybe look at old pictures and write a poem and cry more *eats an entire carton of ice cream*

Leo: I can’t cRy in fRonT of PEOPLE!!! I have too much pRiDe!!!!! *throws head back and struts their stuff* (10 minutes later they have a dramatic emotional show just for the benefit of everyone else)

Virgo: am I actually feeling this or am I just projecting my feelings into this moment so that I can get them out? what do these feelings mean? what does the fact that I’m questioning my feelings mean? is that another feeling? is life even real? I hate myself I’m so INCOMPETENT *hysterical crying*

Libra: nOOOOO this means cONFLICT!!!!!! I can’t have this in my life!!!!!! maybe if I hold this in nothing will happen. I definitely won’t bother anyone else about it because that would be tOO MUCH FOR ME I can’t put burden on others

Scorpio: *has straight face* this is just another case of the darkness inside my soul

Sagittarius: haha WHATEVER!!!!!! gonna go run away from this bc who needs this kind of drama in life?!?!?! not me!!!!!!!! I’m fiiiiiine those aren’t tears it’s just a piece of dust in my eye

Capricorn: I need…to pull…myself…together….must…look…like…everything…is…normal… *has mental breakdown alone*

Aquarius: emotions???? I don’t have emotions lol what are those??? I’m aBOVE that so I’m just going to focus on the fact that society is so corrupted or something!!! there are way more important issues that MY feelings

Pisces: I…just CAN’T deal with life anymore…I need to eScApE I’m drowning in my own tEARS *sobs*

Camping - Smut

Originally posted by sarcasticallystilinski

Author: @dumbass-stilinski
Rating: NSFW 18+
Pairing: Stiles Stilinski/Reader
Words: 3,649
AN: So this happened? Have some filth. Thanks for being patient. Thanks to @writing-obrien​ and @celestial-writing​ and @rememberstilinski​ for helping me out with this! Y’all are the best and I love you guys sm.


You rolled your eyes as you trudged through the forest, your backpack slung over your shoulders and your sleeping bag rolled up and tied to it. Of all the people you could be paired with, it had to be Stiles. The two of you were at each other’s throats constantly, and you had a feeling that this was Scott’s underhanded way of trying to get you to get along.

Keep reading

Mixing two bags of inter-planar nature

Context: We (The Ferry Corps crew - ) managed to win an arena battle during a festival and obtained a bag of colding as the prize though we already own a portable hole. We were looking to decrease the amount of stuff we physically held on us.

Rogue: Say… guys, can we put the hole into the bag of cold?

DM: Uhhh no.

Cleric: Why not?

DM: Because you’ll destroy the world….?

Cleric: So that’s a yes?

Bard: Why would you want to?

Cleric: Why would you not want to?

Bard: No no no let’s not.

Originally the cleric (me) was Chaotic good. Now I’m Chaotic Neutral.

Requested anonymously (many times. more times than Nebby escapes the bag.)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Nebby refuses to stay in the bag. If you’ve played Pokémon Sun or Moon, or seen the recent uprising of Nebby memes, you know this all too well.

This begs the question (or maybe, ‘bags’ the question): How does Nebby keep escaping the bag? Nebby constantly leaves the bag to go on adventures or to the Ancient Ruins, or sometimes just to defy Lillie. Sometimes Nebby is able to do it without Lillie noticing, and sometimes without even having the zipper open.  As a Cosmog, Nebby does know the move Teleport, but that looks much different than what it does when leaving the bag:

Nebby seems to pass right through the fabric of the bag. We know Nebby has a gaseous form, since Cosmog is the “Nebula Pokemon”. As we found out in our Cosmog Analysis, Cosmog is most like a molecular cloud, which have a density of about 100 particles per cubic centimeter. For reference, sea-level atmosphere air contains about 2.53×1016 molecules per cubic centimeter (or (0.0012 g/cm3): more than a million billion times as much as a molecular cloud. Using Nebby’s height and weight from the pokedex, we find that Cosmog is even more dense than air: 0.024 g/cm3. 

Cosmoem, Nebby’s evolution, is even more dense: 1909.7 g/cm3. If Nebby, a Cosmog, compressed itself into the density of a Cosmoem, Nebby would only have a radius of only 0.23 millilimeters, or roughly 4350 times smaller than it was previously. 

Depending on the fabric that the bag is made of, 0.23 mm is most likely small enough to slip between the stitches at the seam, or maybe through the spaces in the zipper.

So what evidence do we have that Nebby can collapse itself into such small sizes? Well, that’s what nebula do. Molecular clouds collapse to create stars, just like Cosmog (the Nebula Pokemon) evolves into Cosmoem (the Protostar Pokemon). Usually, nebulae do this because of gravity: Cosmog is too small to collapse from its own gravity, but we still know it can collapse. Why? Look at its arms: it’s already forming little stars. Cosmog must have the ability to compress itself to form these tiny stars. This ability isn’t unusual for psychic pokémon: Gardevoir, for example, can compress air into black holes. Since Nebby can compress itself, unless the bag is perfectly sealed Nebby will easily escape.

Nebby can compress itself into tiny sizes, slipping through the seams of the bag as it pleases.

ML Headcanons...

I’m still sick, so I just sleep and dream up headcannons…

  • MariChat scenario where Chat comes to visit after Mari has ONCE AGAIN stolen Adrien’s phone
  • Enchanted AU where the roles are thus: 
    • Adrien = Giselle (cause OMG he is such a flippin’ princess and I wanna see him sing a bunch of vermin to help him clean XD)
      • (although at the same time I see the appeal of Mari playing this role too, because cutting curtains into super cute outfits omfg)
    • Nino = Prince Edward (because fight me, that’s why)
    • Plagg = Pip (for obvious sass reasons)
    • Nathaniel = Nathaniel (LOLZ)
    • Chloe = Narissa (Don’t get me wrong, I believe in her redemption, but she would make the PERFECT Narissa so deal with it)
    • Marinette = Robert (because I see her being practical and rocking that “WTF Why are yousinging in the middle of the park?!” attitude)
    • Alya = Nancy (Because, again, FIGHT ME… also, that scene at the end where she throws away her phone… you don’t understand how much I NEED that)
    • Tikki = Morgan (because OMG CUTE!!! Plus, who else is gonna convince Mari to take a deranged man in a poofy gown standing on a billboard in the rain back to their apartment?!)
  • Ladrien or the OT4 engaged in a prank war (like, can you imagine omfg XD)
  • Chat/Adrien being harassed by a squirrel for no explainable reason (like, the little critter is just always there throwing nuts on him and tearing holes in his bag, etc)
  • Alya screaming incessantly the first week after she gets her miraculous everytime she sees any of the OT4 (they are all very worried)
    • Like, literally, Mari arrives to class late and Alya just screams wordlessly, scaring everyone
    • Alya goes over to Nino’s to hang out with him and Adrien and just shrieking like a banshee when she walks into the room
    • She never offers an explanation and pretends nothing has happened each time
    • Inside she is dying
  • Nino after he gets the turtle miraculous being easily unbalanced when pushed
    • Like, Chloe knocks into him and he falls on his back on the ground
    • And, for the life of him, no matter what he does he CAN. NOT. GET. UP.
    • Adrien is so confused as to why Nino is flailing around like an overturned roach
  • Marinette going to take Adrien some schoolwork he missed while he was out sick, except once she gets inside she gets lost and sees Gabriel turn into Hawkmoth
    • Cue freaking out and Ladybug kidnapping Adrien
  • MariChat truth or dare game, Mari dares him to do a pole dance using his baton
    • He does it
    • He is exceedingly good at it
    • Mari stuffs his belt with monopoly money
    • Life is good.

…as you can see, I have been on a lot of medication.

I may do some of these… but first I must get better… and find a job…

I am a tired turtle…