let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Claire Keane
#extradirty
Andulka
Origami Around
Misplaced Lens Cap
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
tannertan36
Kaledo Art
blake kathryn
PR's Tumblrdome
sheepfilms
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d e v o n
No title available
almost home
Kiana Khansmith
titsay
★
todays bird
seen from Croatia
seen from Vietnam
seen from Türkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from Ireland
seen from Sweden
seen from Bangladesh
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany
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seen from United States
seen from United States
@friendscfmine
the moms are in the kitchens , and they're bakin' 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒔 , they smell so good , they're made to 𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐮𝐩 the smell of 𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑺 ! they're in a small town , but pies don't cure all ills . . . 'cause 𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑬 lives in a small town : that's why those moms take pills !
ind. sel. south park multimuse ; sideblog to troublcmakcrs ; main muse is stan marsh. written by teddy, he/him, 25+. minors, personals, and people with bad vibes will be blocked. (bios are wips.)
carrd. memes.
Precious trick or treating time is passing by, not that Mox cares...
"Uh." Okay. So, stabbing? Common. Pencils, knives- kids are kids, gang affiliated or not. "You mean...with a BB gun, airsoft, paintgun kind of deal...right?" His brows are up at his non-existent hairline.
Yeah, points to Stan on this one.
Stan has done airsoft before and really enjoyed it, but that’s not what he’s talking about this time. He shakes his head and says triumphantly, “No, like with a gun gun. One of the fifth graders brought it to school with him.”
He’s too caught up in his victory to let the true horror of what he’s saying properly wash over him.
“Plus, my uncle owns a gun shop, so I can pretty much get whatever I want.” He won’t and has rejected every attempt Uncle Jimbo has made to shove a hunting rifle in his hands, but still, he could if he wanted to.
"That bullshit happens to me all the time, 'nd by all accounts I probably shouldn't still be alive after all of it." She grins, thrilled that he is just as amused as she had been while thinking about saying it. Joking about things like this was the easiest way for her to process it, after all, although Ava knows that not everyone likes to be as blasé about it as she does.
"I'm fine, it'd take a hell of a lot more than the shit that happens here to take me down for very long." Guns aside, that is. While getting injured, and going through the process of healing from it, is not her favorite thing to do, it isn't that much of an issue whenever it does happen. Surface wounds, hell even internal bleeding, was far better than having to figure out what would be lethal for her. She does snort at the mention of brain injuries killing her later down the line, telling him, "I think I woulda already gone down from that if that was the case. Once it happens, kinda hard to heal from it, yeah? Dunno if I'd be able to reverse somethin' that happened in the past now, so..."
Rolling her eyes, she gestures behind them, back towards one of the main roads. "One of the jackasses in town hit me with their car." Realizing how terrible that sounds, even with Stan's knowledge of her magic, she quickly adds, "It definitely did something, but 'cus I managed to not break any bones, 's kinda not a big deal. 'M actually not entirely sure how I managed to not break any of them," If she had to guess, it would probably have to do with the pact. "I'm honestly more annoyed that they didn't even bother to stop. Which, y'know, probably for the best. I think I might have thrown the car with them still in it."
Stan winces, sucking air through his teeth when Ava says she was hit by a car. It doesn’t surprise him at all because he has seen the way the adults drive around here. They think because it’s a small town surrounded by country roads that they can fly down them, sometimes while drunk or high, and face no consequences for it. Then, the older people, like his grandpa, are even worse, even when they’re not drinking.
He knows Ava is fine, though, so he doesn’t cringe for long and goes back to unskillfully trying to suppress his smile. He shakes his head and says, “Let me guess, it was those loud redneck guys who whip around town in their truck with at least one of them standing up in the bed?” It would be anyone, but that old truck is the one that Stan sees causing the most problems.
“If it was, I think it’s more of a miracle that they didn’t get killed crashing into you. Sturdy as you are, you probably coulda tipped at least one of them overboard.”
He doesn’t mind the ‘they took er jerbs!’ guys that much, but he still would have laughed if he had seen that.
Kenny nods. Butters always seemed to have a similar strain of luck to him. But somehow it was worse... since he lives through all of it. The odd over protection and control Butters' parents demanded.. Even though Kenny often gets jealous of friends with more attentive parents, Butters' were really something else. He can only imagine what the fear of getting in trouble feels like for him. And how high stakes risky it is they're doing this now. Kenny's parents won't even notice he's gone. Probably. "I'm sure they'll take good care of them." Not that he has any idea how Butters' parents will react to him gone. Or if they'll even remember he has pets to care for. It must've been hard to leave them behind. But there's no way they could travel with a hamster cage.
When the bus pulls up, Kenny stands first before turning and taking Butters' hand. Once they get on this bus, everything should be smooooth sailing. The bus driver looks at them with a quirk of her eyebrow, eyes darting around to find the parents that these kids belong to. But if she actually cared otherwise, she didn't say anything. The good thing about this time of night is that the driver is probably too tired and done for the night to give them trouble.
Kenny digs into his pocket before presenting a bus pass, his dad's. "Can you do two on this?" He tapped it once and then waited until he could tap again. Then he turns to Butters. "Let's find some good seats in the back."
That’s the good thing about Kenny’s family being poor, Butters supposes—unable to get a reliable car, they have to get around somehow, hence the bus pass. Butters packed enough money for the fare, but the less he has to dip into his savings, the better. After all, they don’t know how long it will be expected to last them.
So, it’s fine to use Kenny’s dad’s bus pass, he tells himself, even as guilt hits the bottom of his stomach like a rock.
“Okay,” he agrees, plodding along behind Kenny, their hands still linked. He’s eager to get out from under the bus driver’s gaze. He doesn’t know what he will tell her if she starts asking too many questions.
There are two or three other people on the bus at this hour, but all of them are too groggy to pay the boys much mind, their heads slumped against their chests or the windows.
Once they find their seats in the back and the bus rattles back into gear to chug along down the road, Butters sighs, trying to convince himself that he feels relieved. He smiles at Kenny and tries to keep his voice hushed so as not to distrub any of the half-sleeping people.
“Man… doesn’t it feel a little bit like we’re on TV or something?” Or dreaming. “Like—like one of those teen shows with all the cool, rebellious high school kids?”
Talking about the paranormal is all Jon can to do some degree. It has followed him since his own youth, railroading him into his job at the Institute and what he is now, so Michael would be hearing about it in one way or another from Jon. He may not have a decent understanding of what societal clique the teen falls into, but thankfully he won't have to worry about any misunderstandings because of it.
The mental image of Georgie pretending to be scared would be incredibly funny to Jon, he does almost envy her inability to fear. Knowing what he does about her, though, she would not be the type of person to do that just for someone else. He really is glad that it had kept her from being picked up by Elias, lest she suffer the same fate as his and his predecessor's assistants seemed to.
"Local, usually." Did he want to bring up Melanie? Not entirely, but she was important to giving Georgie a little more credibility in Michael's eyes. "Her and one of my, ah... Coworkers, Melanie, have collaborated quite a few times. Melanie ran her own little investigative YouTube channel before she came to work with me, she's prefers to be in the middle of the action." A little too involved, he thinks, given that one of her trips had ended up with a ghost bullet lodged in her body.
And, of course, the lengths she had gone to in order to sever her connection to the Institute.
If it was real. Clenching his teeth together, Jon fights back against the urge to outright tell Michael that, unfortunately, some of what was reported on was very much real. He doesn't want to give the Fears any more influence over people than they already have, and he got the feeling that he would sound like he was pandering by giving either Georgie or Melanie's works the validity they deserved.
"I- I wasn't-" Hearing it would make Jon feel better, though he has no reason for it. "No, I'll drop it." Should he have made any effort to Know what was happening in South Park, he wouldn't have brought it up at all. "Force of habit, that's my bad."
“Wait, your coworker?” Michael says. He had not realized that Jon’s boring office job involved the paranormal in any fashion. He did catch that the coworker moved to that building to be closer to the supernatural than even the independently researched podcast would allow her to be.
“No way—so you mean all that office shit you do involves ghosts and whatever?”
He realizes that he is coming across as a little too uncool in the present moment, so he recomposes himself, straightens up and flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette. It has started to dwindle quite a bit, which is disappointing. He probably doesn’t have much left of it.
“Where do you work, exactly?”
"Hope you found a better spot to tuck it away. Like ... maybe your drawer in your dresser." He for sure did not get a new phone after that. At least, it looked the same. Roughly. They lived in different, simpler times then, and having to worry about your phone was the least of your concerns! At least, she thought so.
"We got to get away with climbing on rooftops back then. Now, it'll be a call to the police station and them being weirdly racist but all for their cult they ... yeah I'm not gonna think back on that whole fight," she muttered, waving her hand. "Times were simple. I can't say better, but definitely way more fun than whatever's going on now."
A part of her wanted to relive that kind of life for one night. At least experience it with the knowledge she had now. What would it have been like then?
"If God gave us the ability to murder our teammates after constant fuck-ups without consequence, I think the world would improve so much more quickly," she chuckled. "But ... I don't think I ever really asked what it was like to work on your dad's farm. Did you do night shifts or something like that?"
Tucking it into the bottom drawer of his dresser would have made sense and would have been so unbelievably easy, given that nobody ever did find the stash of whiskey and vodka he had down there. But he shook his head, laughing. “Nah, I was too glued to it for that. She stole it a couple more times, but I usually just toughed it out until she fell asleep if I didn’t feel like fighting her for it.” He couldn’t exactly rope his friends into every time he and Shelley got into it over something, and he was a little embarrassed to ask for help when it wasn’t part of a game.
“‘Simple but not better’ about sums it up, yeah.” He really was miserable back then, but it was such an uncomplicated and predictable misery. And it wasn’t like it was all bad all the time. Like Fran said, at least it was fun half the time. “This town’s really gone to the dogs ever since the police decided to get competent and start doing their jobs, pretty much over night.” Not even the President of the United States could get federal agents out of the Park County Jail now, which was such a downright comedic leap forward from where they had been as kids.
He rested his chin in his hand and shrugged. “I mean… not really. On the night shift thing. I worked after school until the evening when my dad was too blitzed off his own shit to give a fuck what I was doing. I still stayed up pretty late, though, and just kinda did whatever.” Which usually meant getting drunk alone in his room and watching YouTube until his eyes bled or the sun came up, whichever happened first.
“I’m glad it wasn’t a twenty-four-hour gig or anything. Farming’s a lot harder than it looks… and it was probably illegal for me to be doing most of that shit at that age, too.”
"Cool, cool," Mox says, still spinning the ring on that keychain. "So when would you want it? Once you've already been stabbed, or maybe after your first arrest?" He pauses, head cocking, considering. "...Maybe you've already had your first arrest, in which case, my bad, dude, carry on. My first one was over trying to shoplift a PS1. Since we're already calling me a huge faggot, might as well add old to the mix, too."
“I can tell you’re old just by looking at you,” Stan retorts, putting his hands on his hips, the bag of candy crinkling at his side. He doesn’t think he has even seen a PS1 in real life and can’t be sure they really existed because the rare gameplay he sees online from those old games looks like a fucking fever dream.
“I haven’t been arrested yet.” By some miracle, given some of the shit he and his friends have gotten up to. “But I have been shot.” He holds his chin up, like this is some gotcha moment, like he didn’t wail and blubber like a little bitch for his mother. “So, I can handle myself.”
It was mostly a statement. Just something she felt was true about herself, and she was right to a degree—she wasn't anyone's favorite that she knew of yet. She drifted between people and knew everyone, but not everybody knew her. That's how it stood in time unless something changed.
But what he said was that determining factor. Glancing up at him, she returned a smile of her own. "Yeah, I mean ... everybody was kind of an ass in their own way. You kind of had to be with the kids and adults we had to deal with. Most of 'em I don't know how were able to get jobs. Or vote."
Fran couldn't really blame him in the end. Everybody was an asshole (in her mind) from what she experienced. Even the kindest kids like Butters or Jimmy were dicks in their own way, but in certain situations; a necessary evil.
" ... me too. I think if I didn't really have somebody to talk to, I'd have an average of maybe eight or nine words spoken per year," she chuckled. "But you do a lot of improvement in your own way. Being aware about it is the first step, I'm pretty sure."
“Yeah, I guess it’s a bit of a dog-eat-dog world out here, in that regard,” Stan agreed. “And some people do deserve whatever dickishness you throw there way.” Historically, he had just had a very hard time choosing which ones deserved it and which ones didn’t. Maybe he should have been more of an asshole to his old friend group when they were growing up, but he had been so concerned with being in the ‘in’ crowd that he didn’t want to talk to the kids who were well-meaning but a little bit cringe.
“I guess, in a way, I was doing what I felt I had to do to survive in school, but now I’m figuring out that that was all meaningless bullshit.” It was a flimsy excuse, but it was what he had.
Stan gave her a small smile and shrugged. “Being self-aware can be a little annoying on its own,” he said. “Apparently, it’s not enough to just be that, you also have to, like… do something with it.” He rolled his eyes as if it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard, but he couldn’t help giving away his amusement.
“I guess some people are getting a little fed up with hearing me talk about how much I suck.”
Digging. Digging? Okay, well, unless Christophe has some kind of superpower he's unaware of, that's going to take fucking ages. How long is he expected to run interference?
"And how long are you expecting that digging to take you, exactly?" A manual shovel isn't exactly inspiring confidence, and Palmer's going to ask as many mission-related questions as he sees fit. It doesn't matter to him who gets the kill so long as he gets paid and the job is done. He doesn't pin his pride on that, as much as certain media outlets have gone out of their way to paint him a cold-blooded assassin.
No. That's only on occasion, when his employment stipulates it, god damn it. It's risky work, thankless work, and all it does is increase the heat him on.
Christophe will not acknowledge his abilities as anything beyond what a normal human can do with enough practice and training, although by all accounts, they are. He knows that he has a special talent for it, but to think of it as a superpower makes him cringe. He figures they haven’t codenamed him ‘Ze Mole’ for nothing, and it’s that he has a lot of practice under his belt.
He shrugs. “Assuming you can be assed to do your job correctly? No more than fifteen to thirty minutes,” he says as if it were the most obvious fact in the world, as if someone should just be able to look at his hair and nails and clothes caked in dirt and be able to figure that out.
“Do you think I would fucking suggest it if I thought it would take several hours?” He flicks the ashes off the end of his cigarette with blatant annoyance. “Don’t worry—I don’t have faith in you to last that long.”
▸ @sinshosted ⟶ ❛ you can take the girl out of the ER, but you can't take the ER out of the girl. //for stan, im sorry it was just too funny not to use ❜ ╱ ( the pitt , accepting . )
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Stan asks, shaking with the effort it takes him not to laugh. He is certain Ava didn’t actually go to the ER, especially after Ned almost shot her. She tries to limit her exposure to the adults in South Park, which would be all of the employees, and Hell’s Pass is already about forty minutes away by car, which Stan knows she doesn’t have. So, he can’t be too worried about her.
“Are you okay?” he asks, more out of courtesy than concern. He steps closer and pretends to check her for superficial wounds, looking her up and down. “You’re still standing, so you’ll be all right, in any case.” If anything, she looks more tired than hurt, which given all she has to deal with from forces both inside and outside this town, that’s not surprising.
“Unless this is like one of those traumatic brain injuries where you seem fine for a while only to die years down the line.” Stan follows a handful of different sports and has heard a couple stories like that, really scary ones where nobody knows anything is wrong with them until after they die. That won’t happen to Ava for a while yet, though, considering her immortality as long as Khalaas is possessing her.
“What happened to you?”
Oh. She felt the grimace in that look. Connecting her gaze to his, her shoulders shook a little, eyes widening for a moment with what felt like fear. Did she hit the nail on the head? Or was it overstepping and assuming something? Either way, it wasn't going to set her off from talking about it ... but she wanted to know more.
Quietly, she set herself next to him, pulling at her sleeves to cover her hands a little with the cold sending shivers down her body. It was freezing out here, but it didn't really bother her in the moment.
" ... I get it. Really, I'm ... " She paused, bringing a hand around her neck. "When my parents took me away to move somewhere else-- "as far away as possible", they said-- I didn't get it as a kid. You think with time, you wanna ... go back to where you grew up. Keep it to your heart. But with ... all the shit that's happened in this town, I ... don't blame people for leaving.
" ... but I guess in ... the way you say it, I kind of do. I managed to befriend you and ... well, practically everybody in South Park, but I never really became ... anybody's favorite. Like, there's so many people to talk to, but it gets ... lonely."
She shuffled a little, pulling her legs up to cross over each other before looking toward Stan again with softer, kinder eyes. "It kind of gets nostalgic, though. Looking at everything here and missing the times when we were kids. But everybody's figuring out what they wanna do. But hey ... you got me, at least, right?"
When Fran said that she was never anybody’s favorite, it hit Stan in a weird place, and he felt a twisting in his gut like guilt or something. Part of him wondered how many friendships he had missed out on because he was too attached to the ones he already had, and now look where he was. He still had the Goth Kids and Fran, but he wasn’t really sure where he stood with the former. Fran at least made it easy for him by saying that she wasn’t going anywhere, but he felt a little weird around the Goth Kids sometimes. Maybe it was an issue of his own—almost definitely, it was—but he felt sometimes like they were judging him for being a fickle bitch, always counting on him having one foot out the door.
“Hey, you’re my favorite,” he told her, managing a smile, even though he wasn’t sure who he would save if both she and Michael were dangling off the side of a cliff and he could only pick one of them. “At least, now. I was kind of an ass when I was a kid and didn’t know a good thing when it was right in front of me. I guess that’s also kinda why I wanna go back, not only to re-experience the good things, but take advantage of all the ones I passed up.”
Maybe people were right about him, and he really was too much of a sulky little dickhead. In many ways, he still was, he supposed.
“I know there’s merit behind living in the moment, but it’s hard not to look back and have regrets, you know? I don’t really mean to dwell on them—I don’t think, anyway—but I’m not really sure how to let it all go, either, when it meant so damn much at the time.” He sighed and dragged a hand down his face. Talking through all of this had helped him, especially to see that Fran was right, as she usually was.
“I’m glad you’re still here, though,” he said earnestly. “I really am gonna try not to look a gift horse in the mouth like I have so many other times.”
It is a good thing Jon is not aware of Michael's full view of office jobs, while he doesn't really intend to argue the point any further, he knows that more questions would have come to mind. What job would he even consider then, if he wanted to remain a nonconformist? Nearly every job had you working under someone else, and if it wasn't directly under a person, there were still rules and regulations one had to conform to in some way.
He is far more content to talk on Georgie and her podcast anyways, nodding and pretending like he doesn't notice the subtle change in Michael's expression. "Between you and me, I think she ends up enjoying the research and editing more than the actual recording sometimes, but she does good work with it. I've heard her recording a handful of times, believes in quality over quantity." The comment on gender and how that effects a podcast to him flies completely over Jon's head, something that is for the better if he ends up thinking on it later. "I hate sounding like a walking advertisement, but on the off-chance it catches your interest, she mostly does thorough investigations of the paranormal."
Jon almost wants to tell Michael that Georgie can't feel fear, but is afraid that him saying that ruin the chance of him believing Jon further. Without the Eye, it was nearly impossible for Jon to convey that he is not lying.
Michael is right to silently answer Jon's question, as he had just been about to ask if having friends would be considered normie behavior. So much of what he has said already feels like it contradicts itself, not that Jon bearing his soul for all to see is helping him either. "My point still stands. Even if you only apply it to strangers, it may bite you later on." Hopefully, all that may come of it is Michael missing a few needed personal connections and not anything terrible or life-ruining.
Michael is, unfortunately, very interested in podcasts if they involve investigations into the paranormal, and all of his friends will be, too. Of course, it doesn’t really take a rocket scientist to see that about him. He’s Goth and rather sick of it being confused for emo or scene or—the worst of them all—the Vamp Kids. Jon has earned himself some grudging respect for correctly identifying Michael’s weird paranormal interests and not just assuming he is a fan of vampires and Twilight, the literary equivalent of three-day-old plain oatmeal.
It is good that he does not know that Georgie cannot feel fear, either, because fear is part of the fun of horror and the paranormal. While not much scares Michael anymore, seeing as he has been desensitized to most, and a lot of horror is too funny to inspire much dread, the stories that do get to him, he likes to hang onto. He imagines Georgie doing her research and flinching at the details but persisting, anyway.
He sniffs, re-affixing his appearance of nonchalance. “Yeah, it sounds okay,” he says. “I could listen to an episode or two. Does she report on real, local cases, or is it, like… stuff she finds on the Internet?” He likes some of the Internet reporters, the ones who take stories that he likely wouldn’t have found on his own and spit them back out in a more easily digestible format. But if you watch too many of them, eventually, all of their stories run together as they find the same ones and tell them in remarkably similar ways, all inspiring each other. With social media, it is almost always a slow descent into conformity, and it helps to break up some of the monotony.
“If it was real, that’d be cool.” The minor chalance slipped out of him before he could catch it.
Unfortunately being from South Park means that the ‘terrible and life-ruining’ ship has already sailed, but there’s no way for Jon to know that, unless he, of course, got wind of some of the bigger shit that has happened surrounding the town, like the literal summoning of Cthulu a while back. “You sound like my mom… and I’m guessing you won’t leave me alone until I tell you I’ll consider it.”
"I don't know man. It's kind of a shitty thing to do, right? Kind of cruel and nasty?" Esau laughed darkly, although he never had any intent of actually calling the police. Even he wasn't that awful, despite how scummy he could be. This was for fun, Esau just wanted to see how far he could push this - of course, there was something equally mean about just taunting children. Maybe, he did deserve the evil alcohol.
"Raven? That's a bit cliche, huh?" Esau snickered, "I mean... Raven? You couldn't even go a deeper cut like Usher or Montressor?" This "Raven" could say what he wanted, but Esau wasn't too worried about this particular knowledge getting out. At least when it came to his name. What was he going to do? Tell the police that a man was going to tell on them first.
"Let me guess... Do you have a friend named Shadow? Or... Blade?"
Stan blinked, trying to make it as slow and sarcastic as possible. It ended up looking a bit stupid—‘cringe,’ as most people his age said these days—but the expression on his face when he next opened his eyes was unmistakable. “I guess,” he said, not sounding the least impressed. “Would be even more fucked up if you took out a gun yourself instead of calling in backup.” Not that he really wanted the party to be shot up by anyone, cops or otherwise, but it would make Esau look more insane and dangerous.
He earned himself some points by having more than a passing familiarity with Poe’s work. Stan shrugged. “Everyone named Usher dies. And Arthur Gordon Pym doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. So, Raven, it is. I do have a friend named Arnheim.” It was Michael’s last name by pure coincidence, and the guy didn’t go by it, but it had appeared in a Poe story, which was fun.
“What’s your favorite?” Of Poe’s work, he meant. “Maybe if you answer right, I’ll take you down to the evil alcohol.”
I dont understand how people think “but they killed people!” Is everrrr going to convince me to hate a fictional character. I actually like them more because they killed people. In fact, its the main thing I like about them. I would cheer with pom-poms at the mere implication of them killing again.
ADULTS 1.03 | Have You Seen This Man?
She remembered that entire encounter. How angry Shelley was and wasn't even dressed up for that entire session where they fought for a single perfectly shaped stick. At the time, Fran took it seriously like Stan's sister was playing along. She wasn't, but it was a hilarious moment. For Shelley, not so much.
"She didn't beat your ass afterward when you got home, did she?" Fran laughed, hand covering her mouth. "I think she deserved it to a degree. To a kid, that's like holding back your single piece of treasure."
Fran gave a teasing grin, nudging him. "I kinda miss the superhero stuff we did. Having a civil war gave so much tension and us going out at night was so dangerous but so fun. For like, a week. Still kinda miss it though.
"But if you're talking Rivals ... hmm ... " A hand pressed against her chin. "If they added friendly fire, it'd be the funniest feature. I mean, the closest you got for 'friendly fire' is an angry Jeff."
"Oh, yeah, she did,” Stan said, laughing. Some people didn’t understand the dynamic between him and Shelley, called it ‘abusive,’ but he didn’t see it that way. They both kept to themselves a lot when they were at home together, but he could tell they both cared about each other in their own ways. “She tried to take the phone again, too, but I hid it from her.”
He never did apologize for calling her an ogre, either.
“I think going out at night was the least of our problems back in those days. It kind of sucks, you know? Like I hear about how free our parents were to do whatever when they were kids, and then the same people who went out every night now wanna keep their kids from doing the same and having fun.” Anyone with half a brain would say that Stan, king of bad decision making, should have been kept inside even more than he was, but he wasn’t about to agree with them.
“Living on the farm, that’s one of the things I missed the most about town, being able to go out and do shit. The only thing I had to do at night on the farm was stare at the weed plants.” Which he had done. A lot. Until he felt like his eyes were going to fall out.
“If they put friendly fire in Marvel Rivels, defense would win every time because everyone would be too busy killing their own teammates, either just to grief or to rage. It would be fucking hilarious.”
heart shapes month started guys omg happy heart shapes month
