smoke it if you got it


Allison: Remy’s not so bad.

Nico: Are we talking about the same Jeremias Manuel Holmes? Because if we are, he’s terrible. He’s a violent thug, he smokes so much weed I don’t know how he functions, he refuses to work, he sleeps around, he uses people without a thought, he-

Allison: Stop, Nico. Remy’s not a saint, I get it. But he’s your little brother. And deep down, he’s a good person. He can be kind, he can be loyal, and he doesn’t judge, unlike YOU.

Nico: He’s not father material. Lala is sweet, but she’s obviously got issues as well. No child should be raised by those two. A pack of wolves would do a better job.

Allison: God, Nico. You’re so harsh. She’s keeping the baby. I’d like it if you went to Newcrest and kept an eye on them. 

Nico shrugs: He’s not going to hit her. Remy likes to inflict emotional pain on women, not physical. And that proves my point. If they have to be baby-sat, how can they be parents?

Allison whispers: I’m so jealous I can’t stand it, Nico. I would love to be pregnant. Why can’t it be me? I wish that baby were mine.

Nico: Ah, my love. That’s what this is really about. You wish you were in Lala’s place.

Nico holds his wife close.

The Lives of the Newly Deceased

by @alltheprompts (personal: @fbis-most-unwanted)

           “You can’t smoke in here, sir.”

           “My dad’s dead,” I let a puff out a puff of smoke as I spoke, exhaling slowly then inhaling deeply on the cigarette between my teeth. Spindly, ashen tendrils rose lethargically to the ceiling and dispersed.

           “I’m very sorry for your loss,” the man in the suit ushered me to my feet. “But you really can’t smoke inside.” He guided me through the hallway and out the door, leaving me on the sidewalk outside. I just stood there, leaning against the wall, half-heartedly greeting my relatives and strangers-twice-removed as they entered the funeral home. Eventually, I got tired of the lack of originality –“I’m sorry for your loss.” “He was so full of life.” “It’s hard to believe he’s really gone.” I’m sure they all meant well (and that I couldn’t come up with anything better), but the repetition grew abrasive, and I decided that it would be easier to avoid all this inside where I could dodge the crowd.

           “Mikey!” my younger brother’s voice boomed through the funeral home, far too enthusiastically for the occasion. He wrapped me in a bear hug, soda can in one hand, patting my back with the other.

           “Hey, Carson,” his grip was so tight that my words came out choked and hoarse. Behind him, my mother was next in line.

           She draped her arms over my shoulders and almost melted into me. Her entire frame shook with quiet sobs, and a small pool of tears soaked into my rented suit. “You want me to get you anything, Mom? Water? Anything?” She said nothing, but I felt her head nod slowly. I delicately let her go and snuck over to the bar and grabbed a glass. My dad was sober for the last fifteen years of his life, and yet for a reason none of us had figured out, he requested an open bar at his funeral. I suspect that Carson somehow found a way to add that in.

           I was on my way back, relieved that I had not been drug away by some relative that I may or may not recognize when Aunt Jenny came up behind me and clamped her cold talons firmly on my shoulder.

           “Can you believe it?” Aunt Jenny asked incredulously, “My brother, a heart attack? For God’s sake, he ran ten miles a day!” Her metal bracelets clanged together with every wild gesture. If you made her talk with handcuffs on, she’d end up snapping them in half.

           What kind of a question was that? “Yeah, I don’t think anyone really saw it coming.” Though I wasn’t a religious man, I was willing to believe in any god that could smite me right there just to put an end to the conversation before I said something I regretted.

           “You know, I don’t think a lot of people expected you to show up today,” she continued, clearly unaware of my obvious discomfort lining my pitifully forced smile. “You’ve never been one for, uh, social events.”

           My atheism reaffirmed, I unconsciously blurted out, “Well, my therapist is always telling me to try new things; um, I actually have to give this to my mom,” I held up the glass of water, speaking so quickly that I stumbled over the syllables, because if I didn’t leave then, the water might have evaporated by the time she let me go, and then I would’ve had to start all over.

           I made my way back to the main room of the funeral parlor without embarrassing myself further. I found Carson and my mother standing near the casket. “Here you go,” I pushed the glass into her limp hands, worried that it might slip from her fingers. She held onto it, though.

           I was just about to slink away and ideally disappear for a while when Carson grabbed my arm, holding me back. “Mom wants us to stay by the casket and greet people,” he whispered. I glanced back at her –she stared straight ahead, through the room not at it, the water in her hand untouched. She seemed distant and tired that day, but I didn’t blame her. I was shocked that the other guests were so talkative.

           “You want a chair, Mom?” I asked.

           She said nothing, didn’t even blink.

           Carson leaned over to me, “She took so many Xanax this morning I don’t think she can feel anything right now. I’d be surprised if she even knows what state she’s in.” He took a swig of his drink. “But it’s better than all the wailing and crying.”

           I could tell by the way my mother’s eyes flickered towards us that she had heard, and we caught the judgmental glances from a few others in the vicinity as well. Ever since he was a child, Carson had a gift for saying the things that no one else would in such a public setting, not in a way that was wise or profound, though. Mostly they came off as awkward or horribly inappropriate, but they were nevertheless true.

           More people came up to shake my hand or hug me then than any other time in my life. It was overwhelming, the amount of people who wanted to talk to me and then expected me to open up and have a heart-to-heart three feet away from my father’s corpse.

           After about thirty minutes, Carson leaned over and whispered, “If I hear one more ‘my, how you’ve grown’ I’m going to lose my mind.”

           As soon as the words left his lips, our great-grandmother, who had managed to sink her claws into life for an astounding ninety-seven years, hobbled up. She looked my brother up and down, “Carson, is that really you? You’ve grown up so much!”

           Almost subconsciously, Carson’s grip tightened around the can, crushing it.

           I’m not sure how long we stood up there. There was a fair amount of people, and it took an eternity for each one to move through the line. It’s not that my father was astoundingly well-liked, but everyone seemed to want to dictate their next novel to me at the front of the line.

           Eventually, the crowd tapered off and everyone found their seats. A cocktail of relief and anxiety seized me. I was glad that I would be able to sit down and blend in with the crowd for a while, but this also meant it was time to give the eulogies.

           My mother spoke first. She told the story of how she first met my father, how he took her to some fancy foreign film and wrapped his arm around her shoulders halfway through. They were married barely a year after that, deep and fast in love. Though her voice never cracked and her words never faltered, a silent, strong river of tears flooded her cheeks during her entire speech, and she could never once spare herself even a glance at the pallid remnants of her husband because doing so would shatter the illusion she worked hard to tape together.

           She spoke about how they were talking about going to Hawaii for their anniversary in a couple months and how they were planning a big surprise for the family on Christmas. She never said what it was, I suppose, as her own way of keeping the secret in the hopes that everything would go back to normal one day. When she got to the end of the story, my mother never once acknowledged that my father had died. She only referred to it as “The Tragedy.” It was how she was able to soften the situation.

           My mother was always a good orator. Even if she was telling the most boring story, she held her head high and told it confidently, but every time she said the word “tragedy” it sounded like the syllables were forcing themselves through her teeth. It felt detached, rehearsed. She was trying her best to remove herself from the situation and pretend it didn’t happen.

           I suppose we all were in one way or another.

           I was up next. My chest tightened, and my vocal chords went stiff. I know it sounds selfish, but I didn’t want to get up and talk in front of all those people. My body was electrified by the collective spasming of my nerves, of all the frantic energy coursing through me at once. I could feel everyone watching me, making my blood drain from my head and sink into the heavy, beguiling weight cutting through my stomach and seeping into my extremities.

           “He was a great dad,” I began, “I remember my thirteenth birthday when he took me and Carson to a baseball game. It was my first one. The next day he took us out for ice cream.”

           When I was a kid, I liked to take pictures of the traffic on the highway and print out the photographs to make a flipbook. I spent hours watching and re-watching the cars go by, but I could never get them just right. No matter how fast I clicked the button or how good the shutter was, I could never capture every moment. When the images flipped by, there were always little gaps where they didn’t quite fit together and the cars skipped forward a few feet. Each of them was a good photograph by itself, but there would always be something missing between it and the next one, like how I could look fondly back upon the baseball game and the ice cream separately and still never see the whole picture. So when I thought back to that night at the stadium, the smell of stale beer and peanuts, the home run that flew just over my outstretched fingertips, I had to also remember the end of the night when my father, “tired of our constant yammering,” left my me and my brother in the parking lot to watch his taillights fade into the city as he sped away. The ice cream was my mother’s idea, an “apology.”

           Two weeks later, Carson had his first sleepover, and my dad caught him cursing and smacked him so hard his head almost spun completely around, right in front of his friends.

           What frightened me most about my father’s rage was that it was his own. He was never a heavy drinker and was completely sober for most of my life, so whenever he screamed or hit us or left us in parking lots, it was a conscious decision.

           “He was a constant support in my life. When my dog died, when my first girlfriend dumped me, when I was getting ready to leave for college scared out of my mind, Dad was there.”

           I graduated high school almost ten years ago, but I remember clearly the intense fear that paralyzed my whole body as I stood on the porch the night before I was supposed to catch my train. There I was, teetering on the outskirts of youth, shoved into the world with a clap on the back and no further instruction. Adulthood is a tightrope that the world, pitchforks at the ready, forced me onto, and I have never been an acrobat. My only choices were to stumble haphazardly down the line or take a swan dive off the edge, spiraling into a stagnant sea of disappointment and disgrace. I somehow found a third option: being pulled steadily downward by the weight of my own haze of disinterest in life and crippling fear of staying that way which left me dangling by my fingertips, perpetually stuck, helpless, and screaming for something to change.

           I tried my best to vocalize these feelings, but the words would always either disappear from my mind mid-sentence or jumble together indiscernibly on my tongue. Instead of any substantial advice, my father offered me my first cigarette that night, his own way of showing that I was an adult –too old to be coddled and ready to solve my problems myself. I got on the train, I almost graduated, but never felt like I went anywhere.

           Standing behind the podium, I was so worried that someone might figure out that I wasn’t telling the whole truth. I tentatively met the eyes of several members of the audience. Even Carson, who knew the truth better than anyone, met my gaze sincerely and without suspicion. I loved by dad, I think, but ultimately, I was afraid of him. And I still was, even though he was dead. When I was finished, I hurried back to my seat, glad to be out of the spotlight.

           Carson gave his eulogy after me. He gripped the podium tight to steady his trembling hands. At twenty-four and already a seasoned alcoholic, my brother was a graceful drunk until he got into the double digits. Even then, I never saw his hands shake. This was nerves. I had been with him almost the whole time, and he hadn’t even finished his third drink. My mother took enough pills so she would only have to deal with short bursts of sadness, but my brother took a different route: he purposefully kept himself sharp, feeling everything at once so he could spend time later forgetting it.

           “I must have been seven or eight,” Carson began with a sad smile, “when I first asked my dad about death. My dog got hit by a car, and that was the first time I realized that everything dies. He squatted down, eye-level with me, and said, ‘You’re too young to worry about that. Nobody dies until they’re so old or so bored with life they don’t really care about living anymore. You’re going to stick around annoying me for at least a hundred years.’”

           He paused for a moment, collecting himself. “I was out of town when he had the heart attack. Late one night –right before he died –he called me from the hospital.” I was sure I was imagining the tears welling in his eyes, the growing wobble of his chin, and the heightening tremor clouding his voice. “He was so scared. I think he knew that he wasn’t going to be around much longer. I don’t know how he knew or why he called me and not Mom or Mike or a hundred different people.”

           That was the first time I had ever seen Carson cry like this. Sure, tears were shed when he feel of his bike and broke his arm, but my brother was a private mourner. He surgically removed his emotions years ago, and the few that bled out through the sloppy sutures were only dealt with when he was alone and so drunk that there was no way he’d even remember feeling them in the first place.

           “His words were crumbling and panicked, ‘I can feel it, Carson, how close my heart is to stopping. I can’t find my pulse. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel –they always said I’d see a light, but there’s nothing here. It’s dark and heavy and goddamn horrific.’ He hung up after that, and I got another call later saying he was dead.”

           Carson had lost all composure, shaking and sobbing, bent over the podium, tears staining the Bible laying open on top of it. The audience was silent, uncomfortable and unsure of how to react to this spectacle. Reluctantly, I got out of my seat and approached him.

           “Let’s go sit down,” I whispered as I pulled him away from the microphone before he said anything else.

           “We can’t die, Mikey, we just can’t,” Carson wrapped his arms around my waist and buried his head into my chest. I drug him away from the pity being poured over us from the watchful gazes of my extended family. I sat him down at the bar, got him a drink, and sat with him in silence.

           His tears were finished now, only visible in the moist lines running down his face and the wet spot on my shirt. He looked intently at the glass and then at me before letting his eyes loll around aimlessly.

           “Do you want something else?”

           “No,” Carson spoke in a series of slow, exhausted mumbles. “It just feels weird being the only one drinking.”

           That was a first. “What should I get?”

           He ordered me a Manhattan. As soon as it was in my hand, Carson downed his. I didn’t drink often, but I thought the bartender was a little heavy-handed with the grenadine, as a syrupy residue overwhelmed my taste buds and left a sticky red coating on the bottom of the glass. It was sickeningly sweet and lingered around my gums and in the back of my throat.

           We had slipped into an accidental silence, both of us meaning to say something but neither getting around to it. Eventually, Carson grew tired of staring into space and spoke. “This whole thing is really messing me up.”

           “Death does that.”

           “No, I mean this death. It just doesn’t make any sense. Dad ate right, quit smoking, stopped drinking, exercised…he did everything right, and then he drops dead at fifty?”

           “Not everything makes sense. Bad things are going to happen whether we understand them or not.” I sighed. “That’s why it’s a tragedy –we can’t rationalize it. It makes you realize that doing everything right is just another road to nowhere.”

           “It doesn’t matter what kind of deep philosophical spin you put on it, this thing scares the shit out of me. I know I don’t take good care of myself. I don’t like knowing that it could all be over any minute. I might as well already be dead.”

           Having a conversation with my brother this honest surprised me. Carson liked to prove to the world that nothing ever bothered him or could stand in his way, but watching him breaking down at the podium and sitting at the bar not wanting to drink alone made me realize that everyone is afraid of death. The problem was that Carson and I were not supposed to be. We were in our twenties, owners of the world and the unwritten future it held. Our whole lives were ahead of us, untainted and untouched by reality, but I was definitely afraid of that. I have always been scared of dying, scared I’d kill myself before thirty and scared I’d live to a hundred full of regrets.

           I knew that Carson was right. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm of putting your life off knowing you’re going to have time eventually, but what if we don’t have time? What if we all die tomorrow?

           We fell into silence again, and I began tuning in to the conversations around me so I would have something to focus on. There weren’t many, as most people were still in the middle of the room with the casket, consoling my mother. The bar was tucked away in a corner.

           I heard my name from my uncle, who was about ten feet away, talking to a woman I didn’t quite recognize, maybe a second cousin.

           “It’s hard to believe that Mike’s the man of the house now,” he said.

           The woman nodded in agreement. “I don’t think he’s ready for the responsibility.”

           “Of course not. He’s a college dropout jumping from job to job, and the way he smokes, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ll be having this same conversation about Carson at his funeral pretty soon.”
           I didn’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was what Carson said about how none of us is really living, just dying or dead already, but I hauled off and punched my uncle square in the jaw.

           He staggered back a few steps, holding his mouth. From his shocked expression as he saw the blood smeared across his fingers, I could tell that this was probably the last thing he ever expected from me. The confusion in his eyes turned to blind rage, and he hit me back hard enough to make the room spin for a minute. I thought of my father and feared for a moment that I was going to take his place. I launched myself forward.

           Though he was three years younger, Carson was almost a head taller than and twice as strong as I was. I had barely begun my retaliation when he pulled me away. “Alright, it’s time to take a break.”

           “He’s fine,” Carson assured the jury of shocked relatives glaring at my outburst. “Just needs some air.” My nose stung, and I could feel trails of thick blood gushing down my chin.

           “What the fuck was that?” Carson raised his eyebrows, handing me a fistful of napkins to plug up my bloody nostrils.

           “I don’t know.” I really didn’t. “I didn’t want him to talk about me like that.”

           I sat down on the curb and pulled a cigarette out of my jacket pocket. My eyes were starting to swell behind what I was certain was the beginning of a nice bruise. I was still disoriented, so it took me a couple tries to get the lighter to work. Carson stood behind me, saying nothing. His eyebrows were unconsciously knotted together, and I knew that he was thinking. His mind wandered, never able to stay in one place for very long.

           Not long after I was removed from the funeral, my uncle stepped outside. With a groan followed by a heavy sigh and the popping of arthritic joints, he dropped down next to me. “You didn’t have to hit me, kid.”

           You didn’t have to hit me back, I thought. “Yes, I did.”

           He nodded, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he agreed with me or was considering my point. He gestured to the cigarette hanging out of my mouth, “You know those’ll kill you, right?”

           “So will heart attacks, I hear.” I blew out a mouthful of smoke and kept the cigarette between my fingers watching the gray cloud rise up against the clear blue sky.

           He chuckled, shaking his head. “You should go inside and get cleaned up. We’re heading to the cemetery pretty soon.” He stood up and offered me a hand, pulling me to my feet. He put his hand on my shoulder as we walked inside to show everyone that we had made up. I took it as his way of apologizing and wondered if he actually meant it that way.

Because the sun had begun to set, the air had picked up a bit of a chill. My mother, Carson, my uncle, and myself carried the coffin. My uncle’s only injury from our skirmish earlier was a split lip that had quickly scabbed over, and because he was a much better fighter than I was, I sported a deep purple bruise that wrapped around my nose and each eye. At least the pain had subsided, leaving behind only a dull throbbing in between my eyes.

The walk to the open grave seemed eternal, which gave me time to contemplate how we treat the dead. It’s strange, once you think about it, and it’s only for the living. The dead don’t care if they have the most expensive casket or the nicest looking headstone. My dad’s coffin cost thirty-eight hundred dollars. Solid mahogany. Almost four grand for a box that was going to be buried in the ground forever. It really didn’t matter if it was cardboard or solid gold, dead people leak and the whole thing’s just going to rot eventually. We have expensive funerals not to honor the dead but as one last grand gesture to show how much we loved them. It made sense and was certainly a nice thing to do, but I could never see a reason for anybody to do that for me.

Carson and I talked about this on the way to the burial. We both want to be cremated. I really don’t mind where I go after that. Just put me in a fancy coffee can and shove me in the attic for all I care. Carson said he wants to be scattered over the Golden Gate Bridge so his ashes can land on a bunch of cars and go anywhere in the world. I said, “I’m really glad I’m older than you so I can die first because I’m not doing that.”

We lowered my father into the ground, and each of us was given a handful of dirt and told to say a few words before throwing it over the coffin.

Uncle Tom went first and kept it short and sweet. “To my little brother, who I never thought I would have to outlive.”

My mom went next. While she had stopped crying, her hand trembled as she held it over the hole. “Please think of me, wherever you are.”

Carson took a step closer, toes hanging over the ledge. “To Dad, thanks for letting me borrow this suit.” He opened his hand and left it outstretched until the last speck of dirt bounced off the shining surface of the coffin below. Then he continued quietly, mostly to himself, “I hope I get those hundred years.”

It was my turn, and I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do or if there was a right or wrong thing to say. My heart was thundering in my ears. “I hope you like where you end up, and I hope I do too.”

Carson and I stuck around long after all the dirt was shoveled into the hole. Everyone else had gone, and the sun had slipped almost completely behind the trees, leaving us with the infinite blanket of darkening sky and twinkling stars overhead.

           My father’s headstone was stark marble, carved neatly upon it the words “Christopher Anthony Weekes, Devoted Husband, Loving Father, Gone Too Soon.” While Carson and I would not use the word loving, and my mother and many other women on our street would not approve of the word devoted, I supposed it was better to remember him the way the rest of the world did. The few shining moments of goodness he managed deserved every bit of that epitaph, and it wouldn’t change anything to write, “Christopher Anthony Weekes, Cheated on his Wife, Hit his Kids, Maybe Could Have Gone Sooner.”

           It took Carson and me a while to realize that our father maybe didn’t love us and that his behavior was not normal. Even though it shouldn’t have, it still hurt to see him dead. But the longer I thought about it, this was more my own funeral than my father’s. It showed me that I’ll never know how much time I have left and that I’m probably going to die before I can do all the things I want to. Carson was right, maybe we’re all dead to some extent.

           Once the sun disappeared, my brother and I, joining the ranks of the newly deceased, turned away from the grave and headed back, taking our first steps into the unknown future, uncertain of where we would end up or if we would even go anywhere at all.

anonymous asked:

A loud bang is heard through the mansion, smoke engulfs the hallways, only humans are affected. Enter Thumbelina Megumi!

Megumi: What the hell just happened? I feel so strange…

Megumi: W-Why is everything so big??

*the ground starts shaking and Yuma’s voice starts booming*

Yuma: Oi Sow! Where ya hidin’? 

Megumi: Oh no! He’s gonna step on me! DON’T STEP ON ME!! I’M DOWN HERE!!

*He picks up Megumi and squints at her* 

Yuma: Sow… why are ya smaller than usual? 


i’m in my bedroom taking shots of communion wine, peeling off the same skin that you touched and thinking about how you were only holy in small doses.

i remember the time i got high and told myself and everyone else that i am the messiah. i still believe that my body could be divine, but this time around, i realize i’m not pure enough.

but jesus christ, you were dressed in your sunday best, smoking cigarettes in the church parking lot after hours, swearing to me afterwards that you’d quit you’d quit you’d quit. well

angel gabriel came to me in a dream and told me to burn your name off the tip of my tongue with the candle i used to light before each sermon. or maybe it was my lighter from the gas station. i don’t think it really matters anyway.

all i know now is that you will never be holier than thou.

—  honest to god

the-winter-avengerrrrr  asked:

Can I have a letter from Marius or Eddie Kreezer (it can be about whatever but uh I'm feeeeeling more masc today so he/him pronouns ahah) the names Rhysand just so you don't forget ahah 😂

Heya, darlin’

Can’t remember the last time I talked to you, gotta say it’s been forever though. Don’t it feel that way? How’s life been treatin’ ya?

I got me some whiskey, and a smoke, and I am livin’ the fucking dream right now. You shoulda joined me when ya had the chance, baby.


anonymous asked:

0-44 odds (zero is an odd)

oh boy okay


3:Do you smoke?

5:Do you take drugs?

7:Have tattoos?

9:Got any piercings?

11:Best friend?
don’t have one

13:Biggest turn ons
already answered (hint: i have no fucking clue)

15:Favorite movie
The Princess Bride

17:Someone you miss
Someone I need to stop missing

19:A fact about your personality
I’m shy as fuck

21:What I love most about myself
I’m creative! 

23:My relationship with my sibling(s)
I get along pretty well with my brother! He’s a cool dude

25:My idea of a perfect date
Something lowkey but still romantic

27:A description of the girl/boy I like
I actually don’t currently like someone! 

29:A reason I’ve lied to a friend
Didn’t want to come out to them

31:What your last text message says

33:What words make me feel the best about myself
Is this asking me what words I like people describing me as? Because I like when people tell me I’m smart and creative and cute and talented and pretty

35:What I find attractive in men
I don’t

37:One of my insecurities
my appearance for sure 

39:My favorite ice cream flavor
Vanilla with m&ms :)

41:Where I want to be right now
Italy, like I said in my last ask lol 

43:Sexiest person that comes to my mind immediately
Already answered!

Actual Things My Profs Have Done

- English prof brought her kid to class, class consisted of playing with legos on the floor

- Physics prof brought himself to class, class consisted of playing with legos on the floor

- Astro prof helped me smuggle my hamster out of my apartment during inspections, he bought her a hamster ball

- Crashed at a physics profs house in Minnesota on spring break to save money on hotels

- Played frozen ice hockey with former lego physics prof in the basement labs

- Sometimes I take smoke breaks with this hilarious and extremely Bulgarian physics prof, he grumbles about the younger profs

- We chucked a broken telescope off the roof once with my astro prof to see what would happen (he did not have keys to the roof I do not ask questions about how he got up there)

- Almost every geology prof here licks rocks to identify them

- Meteorology prof had a competition of how many people you can fit inside a deflated weather balloon (4)

- Stuck dry ice in front of a high powered class 4 laser to “see what would happen” with my boss/physics prof (lots of steam)

- Chem prof has accidentally lit his podium on fire. Twice.

- Physics prof, aptly named “physics dad”, brings in homemade cookies for the undergrad office every Friday. Bought us all Valentine’s on Valentine’s Day as well.

- Got offered milk duds at the park by a (possibly drunk) physics prof on welcome weekend
Oh... Shaq Thinks The World Is Flat
Maybe he can see something up there we can't?
By Christian Zamora

“It’s true. The Earth is flat. The Earth is flat. Yeah, it is. Yes, it is. […] So, listen, I drive from coast to coast, and this shit is flat to me. I’m just saying. I drive from Florida to California all the time, and it’s flat to me. I do not go up and down at a 360 degree angle, and all that stuff about gravity, have you looked outside Atlanta lately and seen all these buildings? You mean to tell me that China is under us? China is under us? It’s not. The world is flat.” - Shaq

batkids in high school expectation vs reality

dick expectation: preppy af, popular, probably a jock, friendly with every one

dick reality: cheerleader, mostly liked but still gets into fights regularly, talks back constantly, on a first name basis w/ all the secretaries in the office (”hello again, dick. i think you’ve got blood on your face” “shannon hi!! how are the kids?”

jason expectation: Bad Boy supreme, in trouble 24/7, hated by teachers, smokes on school property, always getting into fights

jason reality: huge nerd, does all of his homework + extra credit assignments, lives for field trips, probably cries while reading books in english class, has like 2 friends, that one kid who reminds the teacher about homework

cass expectation: literally non existent?? i’ve never seen her in a high school au why

cass reality: puts effort into only the work she’s interested in, generally viewed as a good student, secretly breaks rules constantly but never gets caught

tim expectation: nerdy af, top of the class, probably bullied lowkey

tim reality: literally never does homework, stays up all night researching things that have nothing to do with school, constantly daydreaming in class and probably falls asleep, hated by teachers, students find him mildly terrifying, has really close friends

I am itching to post fan art of Strange the Dreamer, because a miracle happened and I got an ARC! But I’m sort of holding back, cause I feel like it will be too spoilery, until the rest of you have read it.

BUT if I get enough demands for it, if you lot want to see it sooner, let me know and I will post some!

For now, Karou from Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor.

ed sheeran’s divide | sentence meme.


  • ❛ i was born into a small town. i lost that state of mind. ❜
  • ❛ so blame it on the pain that blessed me with the life. ❜
  • ❛ friends and family filled with envy when they should be filled with pride. ❜
  • ❛ when the world’s against me is when i really come alive. ❜
  • ❛ you know that i’ve got whisky with white lies and smoke in my lungs. ❜
  • ❛ i need to get in the right mind and clear myself up. ❜
  • ❛ i look in the mirror, questioning what i’ve become. ❜
  • ❛ i’m well aware of certain things that can destroy a person like me. ❜
  • ❛ i am happy on my own so here i’ll stay. ❜
  • ❛ save your loving arms for a rainy day. ❜
  • ❛ i’ll find comfort in my pain eraser. ❜
  • ❛ i chased the picture perfect life. i think they painted it wrong. ❜
  • ❛ i beg you, don’t be disappointed with the person i’ve become. ❜
  • ❛ the world may be filled with hate, but keep erasing it now, somehow. ❜

castle on the hill.

  • ❛ i was younger then. ❜
  • ❛ i found my heart and broke it here. ❜
  • ❛ i know i’ve grown. i can’t wait to go home. ❜
  • ❛ i miss the way you make me feel. ❜
  • ❛ we watched the sun set over the castle on the hill. ❜
  • ❛ had my first kiss on a friday day. i don’t reckon i did it right. ❜


  • ❛ maybe i came on too strong. maybe i waited too long. ❜
  • ❛ maybe i played my cards wrong. oh, just a little bit wrong. ❜
  • ❛ i could live, i could die, hanging on the words you say. ❜
  • ❛ i’ve been known to give my all. ❜
  • ❛ so don’t call me, baby, unless you mean it. ❜
  • ❛ don’t tell me you need me if you don’t believe it. ❜
  • ❛ so let me know the truth before i dive right into you. ❜
  • ❛ do you have a tendency to lead some people on? ‘cuz i heard you do. ❜

shape of you. 

  • ❛ the club isn’t the best place to find a lover, so the bar is where i go. ❜
  • ❛ your love was handmade for somebody like me. ❜
  • ❛ i’m in love with the shape of you. we push and pull like a magnet do. ❜
  • ❛ although my heart is falling too, i’m in love with your body. ❜
  • ❛ last night you were in my room, and now my bed sheets smell like you. ❜
  • ❛ we talk for hours and hours about the sweet and the sour. ❜

Keep reading