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In the Twilight universe, “vegetarian” vampires have golden eyes from drinking animal blood, a more ethical source than human blood, which would give them red eyes. It has also been established that a diet of human blood makes vampires physically stronger. So, if the Cullens wanted to become stronger without jeopardizing their morals, could they consume mosquitoes instead? How many mosquitoes would they have to eat to survive? Since mosquitoes drink from both humans and animals, what color would their eyes be? Orange? In this essay, I will

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If you have dark hair and light eyes just know that you already have my heart

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My least favorite part of arguing is when the person chooses an abstract concept that I’ve brought up that we both understand and attack it in a literal way instead of addressing the main point of my argument I.e. “I can’t believe you wrecked my car!” “Oh really? You actually can’t believe it? You’re incapable of understanding it?”

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If you don’t love languages, hear me out: my telugu friend had been affectionately calling me, a hindi speaker, “gundi” for 7 months. We didn’t realize until recently that the word has two completely different meanings in Telugu and Hindi, and that we both had completely different interpretations of her affection.

In Telugu, “gundi” means “smol/button/round/cute”.

In Hindi, “gundi” means “female thug”

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I like haunted houses in theory BUT I have no idea how to react when the actors speak to you. They ask me a question and I just… answer it…

The scariest part of a haunted house is the unscripted social interaction.

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I like haunted houses in theory BUT I have no idea how to react when the actors speak to you. They ask me a question and I just… answer it…

The scariest part of a haunted house is the unscripted social interaction.

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michael scott saying “not gonna make this one” and driving away after trying to parallel park in a space that could fit 4 cars is probably the biggest mood i have ever seen

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me, as a kid: i can’t wait til i’m an adult so i can stay up late EVERY NIGHT

me, as an adult, crawling into bed at 6:30 pm: oh thank god

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If you open the dishwasher to find clean dishes, you are legally obligated to unload it. I live in fear, everyday. The soft rattle of cleanliness haunts my dreams. I have not slept in fo ur days i May be in t roub. le. Send he. Lp. H

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My father once told me that anyone who acts, models, draws, designs, anyone who's an artist and needs an image, has to look different from everyone else. The way to get people to notice you, to remember you, is vital in any industry. He told me that yes, these people on tv and in movies were attractive, but they got there by being different than the other people, by acting different and looking different and feeling different to the audience and casting. It was kind of a side conversation to me at the time, but it hit me a few years later. That being attractive and likeable didn't mean I had to be like the popular people, that looking and acting like them would get me nowhere. It hit me that, after all this time, I just needed to be myself.

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Extremely rough draft -had an idea and ran with it-

I can vaguely remember my early childhood. All the fuzzy stuff like high chairs and our ceiling color and the long nights are there, a big mush of stuff that everyone remembers. The only absolute moment I can remember, my earliest memory, was learning numbers. I remember them so clearly, probably because on that same day, my mother was beaten and shot as I sat in the other room. I can remember the gunshot, because it was the loudest thing I'd ever heard. I can remember my father screaming and yelling as he left my crib side. I remember the blue of my blankets, and the softness of my pillows. I was wailing as the second and third gunshot were fired, this time from my father's hands, as i would later find out and comprehend that he had broken the intruders arm and shot him in the chest two, three, four times as my mother lay on the floor, bleeding out. I can remember slam of the car door and the soft, gray room where my father and I apparently sat for fourteen hours during my mothers operation. My father tells me that I sat, awake and silent, for those hours, waiting with him for the results that came with joyful tears and breathless laughter as it was declared that although my mother's arm and shoulder were now nerve dead, she would live. Live. We had all lived. Even as that man had kicked in the flimsy apartment door and torn up our home and life. Even as the bullet entered my mother's body and went out the other side. Even as the man whirled around to late to stop the brutal efficiency with which my father, a trained marine, had snapped his arm and taken the gun that had dropped from his now limp arm. I cannot remember arriving back to our home, to the crime scene, in the early hours of the morning. I can't remember my father shushing me and changing my diaper as he repeated over and over "It's okay, it's okay bud. We're just picking up mommy's stuff." I can't even remember the police and red lights and static and yellow tape around my room. The one thing, the only thing and the only reason I still lay awake at night is for that single moment when my father lifted my basket and gave me a perfect view of the kitchen. The man's head was facing the stove, which I only saw because the black plastic bag had not been fully zipped up. This moment, right here, was when I first saw it. When I first understood numbers. About two inches above the man's head floated a very faint gray number 6. It was the same figure I had been seeing in my books, hearing about from my mother as she held up fingers and placed blocks into my hands. Little old me had no idea why this shape that Elmo had told me about was there in our kitchen, by the weird man. It wouldn't be until months later, as I walked around our new little carpeted living room that I would even think about that number again. On one warm and sweaty day, I fell down and cut open my knee on the edge of the fireplace. My father had scooped my crying form up from the ground and sat me down on the edge of the kitchen sink. Through my tears, I saw a number 7 floating above his stooped head as he bent to wash off my oozing leg. I remember pausing my cries for a moment as I swiped my snotty arm under my nose again. Why did my daddy have that number above his head too? "Daddy?" I said "Yeah?" He said as he finished dabbing the now tiny cut with a washcloth. I sniffled again before saying "Why do you have that?" as I pointed above his head at the little blue Seven not an inch from my finger. "Can I touch it?" Daddy glanced up from my knee for a moment. "What do you mean? I don't have anything, Andrew." He felt the top of his head, patting his hair. "Did you put something up there?" "No, silly! I'm saying the seven." My five year old Vocabulary restrained me. "That thingy! It's glowing!" Now my fathers eyebrows knitted in confusion as he turned to the microwave to look at his reflection. The number was obviously right there. Why didn't he see it? "Bud, there's not anything there, really." He turned back and started pushing hair out of my face and feeling my skull. "Did you hit your head? Just now?" Now a hint of worry pushed through his voice. He was being silly. I pulled back from his hands and sat up straighter as I shrugged my shoulders in stubborn anger. "No I didn't! You're just messing with me daddy. I don't like it." He stared at me for a moment before his face turned sympathetic and he reached out to feel my head again, saying "Bud..." "No! I'm real! Right there. Right there!" I said, pointing right at the number. I got so close my finger went through it, but I felt nothing. As I drew my hand away, the number simply reappeared within half a second. I didn't understand. "Jillian! Can you come here for a sec?" My father called. His voice was low and soft, even when he raised it. My mother appeared from the bathroom after a few moments. She walked a little slower as she clutched the bump in her stomach. I remember her bright pink bath robe that she always wore around the house. She pulled it around her now, coming over to me, already examining the situation with her eyes. "Ooh baby. What happened to you, huh?" My father showed her the dried and minuscule cut on my knee, no bigger then the small bandaid he still held in his hand, forgotten. "He says he sees a number..a number seven, right?" He looked over to me as I nodded "And, uh, he says it's glowing and blue." My mother now looked at my face, her's squished up in confusion. "I think he may of hit his head or something cause I don't see glowing number around here. My mother was already bobbing her head in agreement as she reached towards my hair. I shoved away from her hand. I was not happy that they did not believe me. It was so clear! Now that I looked for it, I could a little violet 3 above my moms head. I set my mouth in a frown as I said loudly "You guys don't believe me! It's real! I saw one a long time ago! When mommy got hit!" Both my parents looked at each other very quickly and turned back to me. "What did you say? What do you mean when mommy got hit?" I huffed. "Like, a long time ago! At the other place! I remember the man who hurt mommy was in black and he had a seven above his head! I saw it! I did!" "Okay, alright," my mother said quickly as she reached out and stroked my arm. " I believe you sweety. I do. We just--" My mother shook her head as my father huffed out a little laugh,"we just didn't think you even knew about that, being a baby and all. That was years ago sweety. I believe you though." She leaned towards a little more. "What exactly do you, um, remember from that..that day?" I crossed my arms and looked up to think. "Well, there was a really loud thing-noise. And then you were hurt, and daddy saved you. And then there was gray for a long time. And then you were good!" I thought for a moment and scooched up onto the counter some more. "But then. But then me and daddy came to the other place, with my old stuff. And I saw the bad man. He was laying down, and his eyes were open. But he wasn't movin. He just looked up. And I saw a number six. Gray. Just like daddy's, and yours." "That is..." my mother stopped speaking, and reads out for me with both arms. "Here sweety let's get down and go talk on the couch." "Yeah come on bud I wanna hear more about this. Come on." He said as he led me from the cold kitchen floor to the comfy brown couch we all shared on movie night. I didn't understand why this was new to them. They had been there. They must have seen the guy. Over the next twenty minutes, I recounted my memories, still crystal clear, to my parents as they stared incredulously at me. I told them that that was the first time I had seen the numbers, and that they had numbers too. As time wore on they started asking questions and became a little calmer as they were answered. Daddy got up after a minute and got the coats and the metal thingys. He helped my mother up as she let out a little puff and held her stomach some more. "Lets go talk to a special woman, okay bud? I think she'll be able to tell us about the numbers. And you." I agreed, although I was still a little confused. A few hours later, I met with this nice lady who I learned to call "Doctor Harry" over the next few weeks of lots of talking and writing and answering questions. She gave me candy. My parents were very curious about what I saw. Now that I was looking out for them, I saw numbers over almost everyone's heads. The tall people, though, they were too tall. Doctor Harry had a 4 above her head. I told her that. I told her about the bad man and mommy getting hurt and everything else I could remember. She didn't seem to ever get tired of listening to me. Over the years, we never found out why I had this ability, or curse, or whatever you wanna call it. It was just..there. Nothing else about me was different, in a good way. I played sports and ran around and learned just as fast as everyone else. It wasn't until my eleventh birthday that it all clicked into place. I absolutely loved our president, for no reason at all. He was just a cool guy to me. I didn't know politics or any fancy words for opinion or fighting, but for some reason, that guy was awesome to me. So, I had asked my parents one day if I could meet him, to which I got a chuckle and a "Maybe, bud." to. My little sister had clapped her chubby baby fingers together in agreement, although she didn't understand anything besides "mee-mee" for mom. Lo and behold, five months later, we had a ticket to go to this fancy place far away and see the president. I was so excited. I would get to shake hands with him! As my birthday approached, my excitement grew and grew until I could almost explode. As I watched him step out of his car, I glanced at the two big scary people beside him. One woman and one man, dressed in dark blue, with guns strapped across their backs. They had floating little 7's above their heads. As the president buttoned up his jacket, I saw the little faint 8 above his head. And I understood.

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Bottom Left

She was in every single picture. Every time, on the bottom left, she stared directly through the lens, like she could see me even now. Even as I saw my six year old self swing from our tree in the backyard. Even as I ran through the sprinklers. The picture in my left hand was covered by my thumb. It was of my favorite summer, right before sixth grade, at the lake. My smile was carefree as I bobbed up and down in the warm water. Slowly, I dragged my thumb back to see those deep, depthless eyes looking directly at me. This time, she smiled. She was there, down in the murky swirls of silt I kicked up in lazy rhythm. Now that I thought about it, during all those moments, I had somehow been hurt. Yes...yes I had lost my grip on the tree branch not a minute after the picture was taken. I broke my ankle in the fall, and missed out on sports for three months. In the yard, as I raced through the sprinklers, my foot caught the metal and I had fallen face first onto the grass. Even as I floated around in the lake, I remembered the sharp pain and the scream I let out as an inch long splinter had somehow become lodged deep in the sole of my foot. My entire family hadn't been able to figure out how it had happened. I was a good twenty feet from the docks, and there was no current. Now, staring back into her eyes, I began to realize what had really happened. My breath was already shaking, a cold sweat covering my body. Why had I never seen this-this-thing?! I had looked at these pictures with my family at least a dozen times over the years, and I would have noticed her before. I quickly shoved those pictures back into the heavy box and stood, turning to the others. We had hundreds-if not thousands- of pictures of our family. After a minute of fumbling through several boxes, it became clear that she was everywhere. Even when she shouldn't have been. When she couldn't have been. My graduations, my sleepovers, those awful selfies. The air was much too cold, my lungs much too small. I lurched for the attic window and heaved a deep breath of fresh air as I threw it open. I had forgotten about my dog outside, about the sleeping people in this house. My whole family, snoozing peacefully as I had become bored and wandered up here. As I had seen that terrifying creature become fixed in our lives. My dog yipped up at me, no doubt having heard my abrupt exit. The world slowed as a horrible, disgusting thought flitted through my mind. With shaky breaths, I drew out my phone from my pocket and raised it, centering my dog in the frame. He barked again, obviously wanting me to go down and play. I could not focus, could not think, as I saw the finished photo pop up. She was right behind him. She stared up, directly at me. I shot backwards, away from the window, away from her. The doorknob was freezing as I yanked it, throwing the door back. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard a very, very loud snap behind me. I screamed and shrieked and ran for my life as my dog's body was hurled through the open window. Of course, I tripped down the stairs. This time, it was my neck that snapped.

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Blank

The two boys turned around just as the Stretch was hit. The taut bridge into the sky was full of people at that hour, and the pair had just crossed it to come to the market. As a blinding flash of light exploded two hundred feet up in the air, the older brother of the two jumped across his brother as the younger just stared up as the sound whooshed out of the world in one fell swoop. The younger would later recount the next few moments as a scramble for shelter as his brother shoved him towards the nearest roofed stand in the plaza. He would not remember the astonishing and gut wrenching sound of thousands of bodies and screams falling towards this side of the stretch. He would most distinctly remember that night, when the city did not sleep and his brother and parents hushed voices raced through the crack under his bedroom door. His brother, however, lost twenty two school friends that day, and one aunt and uncle as they made a late afternoon walk, meandering across the Stretch for the sights and sounds and smells. "Little Zany", His aunt had called him. Little Zany reacted within two seconds of what would be revered as "The Blast" in years to come. As Zane had led his kid brother, Andrew, down the packed streets of Province, he had bought bounties of sweet fruit and nuts for the two of them to gorge on that night. Zane had been all smiles and respect to the notoriously tough barterers behind each of never ending counters of the market plaza. Andrew had taken these times to snag as many small sweets on the bottom most shelves of the shop stands and stuff them into his pockets, which were bulging by the time the two brothers started their long trek back towards the Stretch and home on the other side. Zane and Andrews dark hair and skin flashed stark white against the blast of light that exploded from the bridge. Instantly, the entire city lost its hearing for the next few minutes in the aftermath. Andrew, being only five years old, had lost his hearing completely. Every other young child, from newborn to about six years old, lost their hearing too. They would be known as the "Deaf Generation."

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I would just climb to the top of that itty bitty mountain everyday to watch the sun rise of set or both. And it would make for a gnarly slip n’ slide

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Okay, so I've been painting as a hobby for a while now. This is my first post of a very personal painting I've finished. Each painting I create kind of comes from a deep place in my heart, if you can believe all that mushy stuff. I've lived through pain and I definitely believe that each painting I make helps me heal and seems to straighten out my thoughts in a weird way. Anyways, here goes. I hope whoever stumbles upon this strange little blog of mine enjoys!

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Laughs and then cries

When everything in the plot seems to be resolved but then the plot twist hits:

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Yes yes very much. Like this world is always changing and unstable but I can always return to whatever world I want in my books

Is it just me or do other people get homesick from books? Like, you miss the comforting feel of the characters, the fandom, and the world created by the author?