The complicated life of a vampyre Prince @vampyreprince - Tumblr Blog

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two-plus-two-is-four

@markiplier

@markifucker-fischfuck @jupiterdnp @ikitesu Halp me get this to mark?

This is a good meme

Which SCP is this?

if you haven’t seen the brotherhood bloopers yet ur missing out

narutos-sloppy-pussy

Winry: hey! I almost forgot! Grandma wanted me to tell you she’s making stew tonight!

Al: FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!

laco-myles

I M T R Y I N G T O S A V E Y O U R L I F E A S S H O L E

milktea-and-moongazing

I LOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEEEEE

noordzee

Maine Gothic

You watch as fog creeps over the islands in the harbor, engulfing them in thick mist. “What islands?” people ask, when you remark upon it. You find you can’t remember either.

Moxie comes from an era when soft drinks were medicinal. In fact, there hasn’t been a new batch made since 1884. It oozes out of cans and bottles, a dark, foul-tasting sludge. Everybody knows this. Everybody drinks it anyway. The glare of the Moxie Man compels them to conform.

Snow falls from a clear sunny sky. “If you don’t like it, wait ten minutes,” says an old man sitting on his porch. Ten minutes later it’s raining blood. “Just wait ten minutes…”

There used to be giant pine trees up in the northern woods. Actually, nobody knows if they’re still there or not. Nobody dares venture in far enough to find out.

Masses of shuffling, groaning humanity clog the sidewalks and shamble through the woods. The locals sigh, mutter under their breath about tourist season, and sell overpriced t-shirts to replace their bloodied rags.

It snowed this April, and the April before that, and the one before that too. Nobody can remember the previous years, but all agree this snowfall is a dark omen. Just like they did last year.

“Fireworks are legal!” declares Governor LePage. “Fireworks are legal and everything is good.” You watch the fireworks, sated, unable to hear contrary thoughts over the crashing sounds.

People from out of state laugh when you call Portland “The City.” “Portland isn’t a real city,” they say, “it’s just a bedtime story! A fairytale!“

The locals sigh with relief when the temperature reaches 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Anything feels warm when your blood is frozen in your veins.

Fire rips across a blueberry barren, devouring the blood-red bushes in a sacrificial ritual of destruction, the only way to ensure a bountiful crop next year. Actually no wait that one’s completely true

The people speak in tongues. “Jeezum crow, ’s dahkah'n a pocket out heah! Ayuh, gunta stahm.” Nobody’s truly understood each other since 1820.

“Maine: The Way Life Should Be,” reads the sign just after the bridge from New Hampshire. The Governor’s addition reads “Open For Business.” Another mill was torn down yesterday, leaving a town destitute and in total denial. They can still see the smokestack, puffing away like anything, why can’t you? They don’t need help, not from anyone from Away. Their smiles stretch wide, a mask of fear at a future they refuse to imagine.

The state motto is Dirigo, “I Lead.” But where? you ask. You’ll never get an answer.

wistfulsin

Maine Gothic

Moxie is sold everywhere. No one ever buys it. The business flourishes.

The atmosphere of Friendly’s breeds tension. As your animosity grows the ice cream gets sweeter. The waitress hasn’t to your table since seating you. The ice in your glass never melts.

There’s a kangaroo in the Desert of Maine. It is ancient. It is hungry. Do not go at night.

The beast slumbering under Saccarappa Falls is awake. The City of Westbrook denies its existence. Shadows move under the surface of the river.

“Banger, I hardly know her” the Mainers cry. It’s a test. You must laugh or they’ll discover you’re an outsider.

You can’t recall buying anything from LL Bean, yet it fills your closet to spilling over. “Their return and exchange policy is for a lifetime,” the old woman next door says in her new boots. She was 20 yesterday.

“Watch for Moose” the road signs read. They don’t warn you that the moose watch too.

No one goes to Lewiston. No one claims it as home. And yet, everyone knows someone who lives there.

rinasaurusrex

what if instead of drops, rain fell all at once.

like, a two inch thick sheet of water just goes thwap, and then it’s sunny again

mx-inactive-deactivated20211028

Fun fact: This is what would happen if there was no air resistance, and it would actually come down so fast that it would kill us

rinasaurusrex

oh.

giraffepoliceforce

Thank you, air resistance, for allowing us to die in normal ways like eating a peanut or being so old our body stops working.

10yrsyart

all of my sweet children

chief-of-project-e

Irish people; The faeries aren’t real

Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring

queer-trans-amazon-deactivated2

#look#you don’t go in a fairy ring and you don’t fuck with a stone in the middle of a field#these are just facts#nobody does it#fairies will fuck you up#Ireland#folklore#fairies (Via @false-dawn)

false-dawn

Look, I don’t believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. That’s just common sense.

ohmeursault

Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.

superindianslug

My general rule of thumb: you don’t have to believe in everything, but don’t fuck with it, just in case.

elocinneem-deactivated20160605

^^^ that part

dduane

This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.

Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.

This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.

Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know… stuff happens there.

I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldn’t go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, it’s ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: don’t forget that the root word of “silly”, which used to be English for “crazy”, is the Old English _saelig_, “holy”…) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.

And you know what? I’m never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.

You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesn’t care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.

So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when you’re pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you don’t go on about it afterwards. Because it’s… unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people who’ve screwed it up, of course. But you don’t meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of “here” and various values of “been”) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after you’re gone. That’s the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say – if asked by a neighbor – exactly what they’re probably thinking: “Poor fuckers. They’re doomed.” And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)

Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe they’ll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.

They’re building the alfar a new temple, too.

Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.

ro-sea

Jacksepticeye whiteboard compilation reboot

I love the whiteboard concept. He never really mentions it, it’s just always there and it’s fun to see a new positive message every so often. I think that says a lot about Jack too. He’s a genuinely nice dude that cares about our wellbeing and doesn’t have to brag about it or shove it in our faces. He loves us and supports us because he wants to see us happy, not because he wants views. @therealjacksepticeye

therealjacksepticeye

I enjoy the subtlety of it :) I can still send positive messages without beating people over the head with them!

zac--efren

ohitsjustgreg-deactivated202206

It’s caption “The First Angel To Greet You In Heaven” 😂😂😂😂

cc-videos

“[calming, gentle voice] Hey! That wasn’t so bad, was it? [chuckles] Alright come on, I’ll show you the buffet.”

theprogrocker

I LOOOOOOOVE

lamaenthel

shoutout to paris hilton for not abandoning her ‘micropig’

when it turned out that it was a normal piggy who grew up to be a big fat fatty piggu

chupicronian

Actually that’s pretty standard size for a micro pig. Pigs are ENORMOUS, dude. The average pig on a farm is 7 feet long and over 700 lbs. A normal pig would be much bigger than Hilton.

EDIT: This is a photo of the world’s smallest recognized breed of pig, the kune kune. I’m sorry cartoons lied to you all.

This is the pot bellied pig, another famous “small” breed.

This is your average adult pig.

catbountry

Big ole’ pigs.

louisville-redcoat

Reblogging because I feel so misinformed about pigs right now. My life is a lie.

notinuseyas

Centaurette

southernsideofme-deactivated201

eternal-nova-deactivated2018011

dogs are so amazing, we aren’t worthy of them

amiephotos

Mai of Avatar. Original design by Quargon, made and modeled by @charr-cole

adhd-is

ADHD is checking your pockets to make sure you have all your things–keys, wallet, phone, etc.–and then panicking because the phone is missing. The phone that’s playing the music you’re listening to at that moment.

ADHD is trying to read a book or article and getting frustrated because you lost interest a few paragraphs in.

ADHD is wanting to do something to relax and then never relaxing because you want to do literally everything that springs to mind. In the next 15 minutes.

Things overheard in the music building:

“1/4? Really? Who writes a measure of ¼. WHY would you write a measure of ¼?” “Because fuck you that’s why.” “I will literally trade you my sandwich for that practice room.” “Dude you should eat your lunch.” “I won’t be able to eat it if my teacher decapitates me for not practicing JUST TAKE IT.” “I always wanted to look inside the percussion room. It’s like Narnia, but noisier.” “Satan created piccolos to punish the trumpets for their pride.” “I’m thinking about dropping music history.” “But why, don’t you need that class?” “Yes but half of it is non-music majors and two people were having a discussion about why there were hashtags at the beginning of the music.” “So my teacher convinced me to take the History of Rock and Roll over the Summer but it was an online course and he found the webcam filters and inevitably the first unit ended up being taught by a talking dinosaur on my webcam. This man teaches college theory.” “SHH. Don’t say the theory teacher’s name. He’s like Beetlejuice. If you say it three times he’ll appear behind you and fuck your shit up.” “I found out Mozart had a butt fetish and I’m never going to be able to stop calling him Mozfart.” “If I see a drink within 100 feet of that Steinway I will track you down and beat you with my harpsichord.”

teukiewookie

“Theres no way a tuba can fit in that tiny ass locker.” “Not with that attitude.”

~somebody accidentally slams the piano keys with the backpack~ “Same.”

“It’s just simple stomps and claps.” “I’m a SINGER. If I could stomp and clap don’t you think I’d be SOMETHING ELSE?!”

“It’s a simple repetition.” “You’re a simple repetition.” “Shut the fuck up.”

revanchistsuperstar

Me (drunk in a practice room at 3am because I wanted to see how it felt to play trombone when I can’t feel my face. Also, I’m slamming the piano keys with my forearms): FUCK YOU I’M HENRY COWELL