got accepted to Great Lakes Maritime Academy’s Marine Engineering program
what is Portia De Rossi like in real life?
like if my wife told me george w bush was coming over for dinner i would be divorced before the bruschetta was plated. what is that lady’s deal i wonder.
Thats the bitch whos violating the migratory bird treaty act kill her
feeling seen rn
it’s christmas eve in your empty apartment and a tinny voice reaches through your playstation headphones.
they never found his body but he’s watching you from heaven and eating the same rotten baloney prison sandwiches he had when he was alive.
you can barely hear him singing silent night.
Moby: In my dreams I’m dying all the time.
Me, politely backing Moby towards the door: Well, that does sound like a raw deal, Moby. A raw deal if I ever heard one.
i'm gonna burn down every church there is until they build one just for you i'm gonna bury all your secrets i'm gonna spread your shining truth i'm gonna steal that rusting thresher that's just been sitting by the highway i'm gonna weld some oven doors to it they're gonna come to see it my way don't let them tell you there is reason don't let them tell you there is space for anything that lives and breathes and doesn't bow before your face because i love you see if i don't see if i don't they're gonna praise you see if they won't we'll see if they won't
dream blunt rotation #5
They can’t keep breaking dishes if there aren’t any unbroken dishes. You open the cabinet and snatch a mug midair as the entire rest of the contents rocket out at you and smash to pieces. Looks like it was mostly plates. You get the coffee pot dribbling and grab the broom, sweeping the shards into the opposite corner under the table in big powerful strokes; picking any of them up would mean an open gash instantly. The coffee is ready. You pour it into the mug and an eyeball drifts to the top. “Cowabunga,” you say aloud, and pop it into your mouth. It vanishes and another one immediately appears in your coffee. You toss it in your mouth again and this time it splinters into glass and rips into the sides of your mouth. “Epic Fail!” you shout cheerfully, and the entire house creaks furiously as a rush of wind blasts through the kitchen. You take another sip of coffee and the glass is gone, the taste of blood already evaporated. “That the best you can do?” you think, but saying that aloud would be suicide—suppressing that type of monologue is almost instinctual, now—nevertheless a gleaming rotten specter appears, 9 feet tall and screaming, and before you get a word out skewers you right through the chest so hard it pins you to the opposite wall. You drop the coffee cup and it spins across the floor (can’t stay too smug, can’t die a hero), and you look up and make direct eye contact with the putrid blue-white sockets where its eyes never were, and you say, softly, “Mmm, yes.” The specter visibly falters for a moment. You double down. “Hurt me more, zaddy,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelids. Even with little more than shreds of tattered skin on a skull, it is visibly disgusted with you. After a split-second hesitation, it screams, blasting your hair back, and you wake up in bed as if it were all a dream, for what must be the millionth time. The cold morning sun shines through the dirty window and you grin hugely. They will never get the ending they want. No, they are stuck in here with you.