waffle perfection

MBTI Types As Waffles

ISTP: Toaster waffle
ISTJ: Perfect Belgian waffle
ISFP: Happy waffle
ISFJ: Disease-curing waffle
INTP: Nerd waffle
INTJ: Printable waffle
INFP: Warm, straight from the iron waffle
INFJ: Character waffle you’d get at Disney
ESTP: Questionably made waffle
ESTJ: The beautiful fake waffle on the menu
ESFP: Waffle with whipped cream
ESFJ: Homemade waffle
ENTP: Waffle batter
ENTJ: Cooked perfectly evenly waffle
ENFP: Instagram-worthy aesthetic waffle
ENFJ: Chocolate waffle

Cheer Up Post #4704 - Waffles & Ice Cream Edition

Perfect pair.

Food Masterpost

***Disclaimer: Most of the images used do not belong to me. If you see one that’s yours, and you would like credit or to have it removed/replaced, please just ask.

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waffle-walks  asked:

Headcanon: When Lance and Shiro cuddle, Lance likes to wrap around Shiro in a vice grip and attack him with cold feet. Shiro constantly tries to make Lance wear socks to avoid cold feet. (I hope you feel better after dealing with annoying ppl)

SCREECHING that’s SO SHANCE omfg I love it
Thank youuu I already feel better and I have a bunch more to go through, bless you all ❤


An Emily x reader where they’re married and really really close and loved up and then someone on a case starts flirting with the reader and creeping them out and Emily gets protective??” - Anonymous

**gif not mine**

From the threshold, you watched her shuffling through the manila folder of crime scene photographs and police reports. Your intention had been to find a private moment with her during this strenuous case that didn’t involve one of you snoring in the hotel room, but when you noticed her determination to find any sliver of missed evidence or anything that could help her team, your team compile a profile, you decided that wasn’t the right moment. 

“You can come in, you know,” she chuckled, turning a page over. Raising your brows, you stepped into the police chief’s lone office, nearing her from behind. She leaned backward and looked up at you, and you hovered over her, hair creating a drape around your faces. “I could smell your perfume,” she whispered with a smirk. 

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hotel gothic

As you’re driving down the interstate, you notice that you are now on a road that is very much not the interstate. You see a light up ahead. You drive towards it hoping it is a hotel after realizing how tired you feel.

The sign from the road has a neon vacancy lit up. As you pull into the parking lot you realize it says nothing else and there is a ring of mushrooms around it.

The nice man at the counter who hands you your key card’s smile is too wild and you can see all of his teeth. There are too many. His eyes are too wide and he looks like he’s in pain. They are bloodshot and watery. His voice is pleasant when he tells you he hopes you have a pleasent stay. Like wind through trees.

There’s a door right next to the elevator with a sign depicting stairs. There is a pool of blood pooling out from underneath the door. You try not to get any on your shoes as you step into the elevator. You feel hungry.

The elevator seems to stop every time you take a breath. People just keep getting on. it’s gotten cramped. Someone behind you buries their face into your hair ad and takes deep warm breaths. there are so many people. You try to stop breathing but can’t. You are all breathing in sync, except for the person behind you. You feel teeth against your scalp. You are only on floor three.

When you finally make it to your floor you are the only one left. Everyone else got off the stop before yours. The back of your head feels damp and sticky. You don’t touch it.

At the end of the hallway there is a baby stroller. It’s bright pink. it’s facing the wall, facing the window. As you approach it to get into your room you realize there is no glass in the window and coming from the baby stroller there is the sound of a lawn mower engine. It makes you feel so sleepy.

You decide to take a shower and while the soap is white enough to make you squint it leaves black streaks on your skin. You’re still too afraid to touch your head so you close your eyes and stand under the water as you feel soft bits hit your calves. You try not to laugh. You fail.

You sit on the bed flipping through channels. The first five: paint drying, flowers blooming, grass growing, clouds moving, waves rolling, and then it’s just static. You sit and continue to change the channel until your bones hurt. Finally, at 9007, the static shifts into a televised church service of an old white man with hair like candy floss screaming about hell. Quickly change back to channel three and watch the grass. Don’t think about the your future too much.

Your hands smell so bad. Like gasoline and bad cigars. You get to wash them but when you sit back down your hands still smell like gasoline and bad cigars. Didn’t you just wash your hands? You get up again.

As you lay in bed you stare helplessly ahead. There is someone on the other side of the curtain. You’re on the seventh floor. Whose shadow is that? You can’t close your eyes.

When you wake up in the morning, you can’t bring yourself to go downstairs for the continental breakfast. Pull the curtain back, and all that’s there is a bloody handprint on the glass. It reminds you of your grandmother’s rose garden. You press your hand against it and cry, ignoring the marigolds blooming at your feet. You clench your toes in the thick grass underneath you though. You’re glad you didn’t watch channel five.

You open the door and there is a breakfast tray waiting for you. It’s steaming, but when you look up and down the hallway it’s completely deserted. Even the baby stroller is gone. In it’s place is a small pile of dirt and a pathetic wooden cross. You can still hear the lawn mower engine. You feel so sleepy you fall to your knees and crawl back into your room, dragging the breakfast tray behind you.

There is a glass cup full of something that looks like orange juice but is foaming profusely, eggs with a sauce that is too red and too thick to be considered hot sauce, and a perfect golden waffle that seems to be breathing. You put it in the bathtub and try not to think about it.

You leave your room and begin to walk down the hallway back to the elevator. You feel hot breath on your ankles. You begin to run. You run past the elevator. You some how run into the lobby. The man at the counter smiles at you.

You hand the key card back. As he accepts the card you see that his thumb nail is cracked in half. As you swallow your bile back, you see something move under his cracked nail. You run out of the lobby and back into your car.

As you’re driving down the interstate, you notice how well rested you feel for having driven through the entire night. You are mildly confused with how many flowers there seem to be in your car that you can see in your peripheral vision and the smell of gasoline and bad cigars and how wet your cheeks feel and how tender the back of your head feels. You decide to stop at the next exit for breakfast. Order a glass of  orange juice, eggs, and a waffle. Delicious.