I woke up at 3am for no damn reason at all, so here’s some Nanu and Guzma Headcanons because what the hell else am I gonna do at 3am?
>Nanu is a broken down cop because he believed in cut and dry justice until he realized there was no system of support for kids who didn’t pass their island challenge, which leads a startling number of them to delinquency.
>He continues to live in/near Po town in order to do welfare checks on team skull’s many young grunts, having an agreement with Guzma that he will always be allowed entry as long as he does not arrest anyone except in cases of violent crime.
>Nanu lives in a constant state of cognitive dissonance over his new, gray justice as he sacrifices absolute adherence to law and order for the benefit of those law has failed to protect and support. It throws his identity into uncertainty and is a major factor in his depression and abysmal self image.
>Guzma, despite having madhouse level rage fits, does not physically abuse any of his gang. He screams and shouts at them sometimes and his tantrums are genuinely scary to bear witness to, but his violence is exclusively directed at objects. That’s why the hideout is always trashed, damaged, and full of broken furniture.
>Guzma’s hands and knuckles are very scarred from punching walls and wood and breaking everything with his bare hands. Plumeria is typically the one to patch him up once he wears himself out.
>Guzma’s love of bug types, especially the wimpod line, is no coincidence. He relates to them as someone who no one seems to believe in or who is generally stigmatized by people. Raising his golisopod is symbolic of raising himself into a figure of power in order gain respect by main strength.
Liftoff by Catsbow Via Flickr: An orca “porpoising”. Possibly J26. Off San Juan Island heading for Active Pass.
This was at 300mm and cropped a little. You are not allowed closer than 100 yards to these orca, which although I’d love to get closer for photos, I agree with. Sometimes that cannot be avoided; like if you are anchored and they come in for a gander, to ride the wake, or swim underneath the boat. They can be quite curious and playful.
“Some people just aren’t meant to be together,” mutters the hopeful soul, it’s the optimism that keeps them afloat. If they dare see reality through honest eyes, they’d sink. So we being the evolutionarily, well-adapted creatures nature has sculpted us to be, we grasp hope with all our might, we accept that there are “other fish,” and tread through raging seas until one day we finally wash ashore a small island. And as time passes that island becomes a continent, a foundation for which you rebuild or “pick up the pieces,” as they say. It’s where you lick your woulds… it’s where you survive.
Well I say fuck the island and throw down the fishing pole, because your fish was just fine—no, they were perfect. Though your fish is yours no more, but I ask you now: is it only a fool who allows the strings of a so-called “fate” to seal such an invaluable door?
I miss this kind of morning. The feeling of stillness in a moving vessel. Watching as we passed inanimate islands. The excitement of arriving and the feeling of traveling. Both are incomparable emotions.