#yawp!

[drpeppercreamsodaa]

new chapter of anderperry spiderman au!!! 🕷️

idk how i wrote and edited this in three days 🏃💨 legendary run

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

ALSO THIS IS NOW MY LONGEST FIC!!! WOOHOO :D and unlike love on the airwaves, this one is nowhere near completion omfg

@whoa-axel-chill @atsecretgardensinmymind @foundheaven013

[virgomoon]

[oldmanffucker]

using the word yawp in a hilson fic and giggling to myself

[xsingularities]

[YAWP! 2017, Be:wilder]

Third time’s the charm - here’s Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it, a poem about eggs !!! It’s been a journey - and a few weeks late - but I’m still so glad a) YAWP! 2017 was a success, b) I got to perform something I like, c) LD is going to be in great, greater hands. 

Transcript and a lifetime of egg puns below the cut:

I have found the meaning of life in an egg. It’s not really all it’s cracked up to be- one carton of 30 is at  3.75, and it’s not like someone hatched up a huge conspiracy but there it was. In the beginning, god cracked open the egg, broke the shell into a million halves, watched them form the earth; the egg white he cast as the sky, the yolk the sun. That was the first day.

And then god stirred the sun up, mixed a gudetama on the horizon. He poured in soya sauce and pepper, drank the egg from the plate, watched the remains of the day gather in the cusp where his spoon couldn’t reach. That was the first night.

From then on it was ritual, breakfast set on a fate, plate, an order, and an egg. In every beginning, god cracks open the egg, breaks the shell into a million halves, sucks the nectar tender, calls it a day. The nights laboured on, pregnant with another dawn.

Our oral tradition begins here: tongues wagging, smack talking, lips peeled for an explanation. The good, the rotten, and the severely undercooked: this is how the world begins, everything boiling down to a big bang on the side of a red saucer. and this is how you and I continue, a circular state of being scrambling for second chances.

but here is where I’m treading on eggshells. See if the meaning of life can be cooked up by some half-boiled excuse, then maybe I’m just being cocky. Who cares if big brother was shelling easter? That he was greedy for a taste of the continental? Still the world goes round, spins on frantically, hardened from getting into hot water.

Every single time, we’re still breaking fast, watching the chips fall where they may. I have tried piecing them back, scooping egg-whites and shards of a shell. But the remains of a day gather in the cusp where my spoon cannot reach.  Morning is only a rite of passage for the passers-by.

between you, me, the chicken-and-the-egg, I suppose I’m just eggnostic.

forget free range, this basket of eggs holds infinity in a careless cradle. To chart them all, Darwin to Da Vinci, Newton to Boltzmann, would be such a tough one to crack. Eggs marked, line crossed, and nothing is ever straight - to the point. Even the origin sits in a corner, an epicentre from which all walks of life diverge. Imagine,

the orbit-weary begins: centrifugal forces its hand, a spinster egged on by shaky denial – you can now unboil an egg. scientists say you can now unboil an egg. the thermodynamics are not mistaken; the argument remains heated, and follows till the end of the line.

But what a miracle this is.

to find order in disorder, faith in the faithless, an egg in a beggar searching for the meaning of life. In the darkest of times, fingers interweave to form a nest for every good, every rotten and every severely undercooked.

The crack of dawn spills forth, warm and lightheaded . The pavement shimmers with commonsense wonder. God has his breakfast set, and we have our fill. Here, there is plenty. Here there will be. The world lives from dawn to dusk, sheer in the spaces between.

Now, this is how we continue, sun set on a fate, plate, an order and an egg. The golden quiet recedes, and everything the light touches is untouched once more. Beneath our feet, a million halves ground themselves into dusk; before us, a god, his spoon and a hunger of seismic proportions. The circle makes its timely round, endures the perpetual march.

The egg, deconstructed, is only a sum of its parts – a sky, a sun and a shapeless, lonesome earth. The means of a beginning is an end in itself; when god hungers, he eats. when god wants, he wills. In this beginning and the next, god has his egg – but not once did he lay it to rest.

[timsrins]

i feel like writing for love and deepspace 🧍‍♀️ im very tempted to do so theyve been plaguing my mind for the past few weeks im about to explode ykw i think i should write about them like for my own sake too ykykyk

[timsrins]

a lot has happened for the past months, you best believe swiftie bf sae is coming back stronger than a 90s trend

[meteorologistaustenlonek]

#OCaptainMyCaptain "I stand upon my desk to remind yourself that we must constantly look at things in a different way. Boys, you must strive to find your own voice. Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Don’t be resigned to that. Break out! You see, the world looks very different from up here. You don’t believe me? Come see for yourself. Come on. Come on! Just when you think you know something, you have to look at it in another way. Even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try! Now, when you read, don’t just consider what the author thinks. Consider what you think. Don’t just walk off the edge like lemmings.

Look around you!" #DeadPoetsSociety

[the-glock-licking-goth]

just once can I have the balls to tell him I like him without fear of rejection?