juniordna-blog1

[juniordna-blog1]

indie oc. semi-selective. a parody. the anti-edgy oc.

YOU GET AWAY WITH MURDER AND YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY, YOU DON’T GIVE A DAMN IF WE LIVE OR IF WE DIE, HEY THERE, JOHNNY BOY!

                                                       I HOPE YOU FRY!

[juniordna-blog1]

dumbstcr:

   Jorge looks to his wife nervously. Ever since they begun the green card process he has been suspicious of what her intentions really are. She definitely isn’t just marrying him for his money even though she has said it to his face multiple times. No, her motives must be much more sinister. ❝Are you a spy?❞

   ❝…❞ Anfisa stares at him silently in response. It’s true, she is a spy. And not just any spy, one from the Cold War whose soul purpose is to bring upon the communist revolution in the United States. She has been trying to infiltrate the country for decades but Jorge has been her only in so she will not let him mess this up for her. ❝If I pick up a drink I will throw it at your face.❞

     Across the restaurant, the Ohioan approaches, her green orbs FLICKERING from left to right in ANTICIPATION of the oncoming foreigners. They have been pervading her life recently--for she has forgotten she is on a reality show revolving around them.

     Taking off her MAGA cap, she leans down to Anfisa and whispers sensually, “Die, you commie fucker,” and shoots her POINT BLANK in the head. Unfortunately, her gun is EMPTY, since Danielle has gone after Mohammed with it. She swears in horror----“Heck!”

[juniordna-blog1]

come to flavortown!

    “But Mr. Fieri--”    “We are always in Flavortown.”    “Since we live inside your frosted-tipped-laden mind, we have been in Flavortown as long as you have.”     “Every decision you’ve made, every delicious meal you’ve had, we’re responsible for.”      “You have not taken ANYONE to Flavortown. It’s all us.”      “And we will take you FROM Flavortown.”

[juniordna-blog1]

     “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME, BITCH?”

[juniordna-blog1]

yo sorry i havent been here i've been working and writing an epistolary short story. hopefully i'll get back tomorrow iF MY BOSS DOESNT KILL ME IN HER VAN SHE JUST RAN LIKE 3 RED LIHJTS GOING 200 MPH WHAT THE FUUUUUCKCKL

[juniordna-blog1]

Tumblr RP 2012: He grabbed a carton of milk and drank it.

Tumblr RP 2014+: Slender digits might curve delicately——&& OPAQUE biodegradable material would find a long-lost home snugly ‘neath gangly sticks of bone and sinew. A cow’s utter hath provided CREAMY substance now floating on white clouds of honeydew in said CARTON—— and as butterfly petals part to receive the rich nectar, a feather-like sigh finds it’s way into the Autumn air.

[juniordna-blog1]

DEVO: photos by Richard Peterson, Search and Destroy Magazine #9, 1978

[juniordna-blog1]

dumbstcr:

     ���Paris Hilton didn’t die in 2012. Clearly you didn’t see her iconic NanoDrop video this year, or—❞ Before she can continue her tirade her memory is obstructed once again and she no longer knows what she is talking about. ❝Stop doing that! I’ll shut us all off if you don’t.❞

    “Doing what?”

    Rewind twenty seconds, because they’re heinous annoyances, a physical itch inside the skull, completely unreachable and incessantly niggling.

    “This is the kind of thing that happens when you watch too much illegal Haris Pilton. You have no idea what kind of nasty creatures can be contracted from these wild tendencies you maintain. We’re the consequence.”      “Plus you’re famous and we want your money.”

[juniordna-blog1]

bratchny:

“I’LL NAIL YA off this roof if you don’t get off of me, you skitebird bratchny!” alex says through gritted teeth as his fingers tangled with latter’s arms as they latched onto alex’s neck like a dog leash. alex threw himself back in an attempt to throw DNA off his back, but instead, a smirk unravelled as alex found himself having a bit of fun in the sudden sprawl. his hand’s trailed down to his chest, removing mr. DNA’s hand, latching his with his own.  “you must be heavily mistaken, sir! ” alex chuckled through his words his boot heels pounding the edge of the roof as he ran off in the midst of the night. “thou is never careful on such a country night such as this!” alex’s fingernails began to engrain themselves into mr. DNA’s flesh as the speed of his engine grew wistful and loose. “i’ve got a real horrorshow of a surprise if you let me show it, sir!”

    The brothers, entertained by this show, jeer and clap for Alex, yelling out calls of congratulations as Mr. DNA’s skinny frame is thrown off his back. They’ve switched alliances for the pure joy of violence. Only befitting of their new host.

     Mr. DNA does not wince at the fingernails dug into his skin, but pouts nonetheless, his robotic voice raising over that of his brothers. “You are a crude and violent bitch, Mr. Delarge!” he yells, “But you can fight me! I’d love that! I am a masochistic and easy degenerate who will keen under your ministrations.”

[juniordna-blog1]

nosferatuinblue:

  “Alright, enough. All of you. Shut the fuck up.” She gave an exasperated sigh and pinched her forehead.

Camille was angry, she wanted to rip all of them to pieces, but she forced herself to calm down and use words like an adult. Violence was not the answer here, because clearly this was some kind of alien matrix bullshit where physical actions had no effect on anything. She had a vision of taking off the head of… that one, the one that seemed to be in charge of the others, and it continuing to talk without a body. Anything she tried would be useless here. Might as well play nice for 10 minutes.

 “Names. One at a time.” She points her fingers like a pistol at the one in the middle. “I gotta be able to tell you apart somehow.”

    When she takes her deep breaths, when she calms down, so do they. Their chests rise and fall in tandem with hers, their chatter ceases, they go paler and softer and they even slouch a little. Like an extension of herself. Watching your own heart beat on a monitor.

     Mr. DNA rests a hand on his chest in reverence, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

     “My dear CAMILLE, no one can tell us apart. Not even I can tell them apart. But among us there is me, Mr. DNA--”      “Gunkid.”      “Tom.”      “Boogie.”      “Cowboy.”      “Wait--I’m Cowboy.”       “No you ain’t! I got a fuckin’ country accent!”      “So the fuck do I!”      “Wait, since when? I thought we were German.”      “We’re FRENCH, dipshits--since she is.” The mousy one points at Camille, using her as a base of existence, like God or biology.      “You’re French? Hon hon...”

[juniordna-blog1]

hyacinthsgirl:

     if two fingers accidentally running through her hair are enough to make her stiffen, five brushes are a living nightmare. It is highly improbable the five men know how much she hates having anyone touch her hair, but considered the situation she is in it is not an option to completely discard. Teeth are gritted, a step forward is taken. Freeing herself from that torture. Chris turns and looks at the five strangers, all while combing her hair with her fingers. As if to take the feeling of the bristles away. There have been few people she disliked immediately, and these five joined that group quickly. 

     “I’m not. I’m satisfied with my life.” On the defensive, like a cornered animal. At the mention of her book, she immediately slips a hand in her pocket, yet without feeling the familiar, worn-out paper under her fingertips. Her gaze has not left the strangers yet. “Who are you? Where have you put my book?”

    The men, all of them tall and lanky and gawky, start tossing the book over her head, from person to person with the fluidity of a working machine. Monkey in the middle, with an unwilling monkey.

    “Satisfied with life? Even worse!”     “What’s worse? Getting everything you want or not getting it?”     “Certainly getting everything you want.”     “You’ve become complacent. Soon you’ll have a dad body.”

    They coo at her in weird, random chatter, eddies and waves of noise crackling over like crossed radio lines. Saying words like peaches and mermaids and drizzly and responsibility and abused. 

     “If you want the book back, you have to start some drama for your own sake--but ours, most importantly. We like TLC.”

[juniordna-blog1]

mustscream:

Robin stands statue-still for a moment, slack-jawed with bewilderment as her gaze flickers from Mr. DNA to his identical compatriots. Well, nearly identical. The one who’s offering his hand is clearly the leader, and there’s some minute differences in the cadences of their voices, but at a glance you could be forgiven for thinking they’re twins- or whatever the nomenclature is when there’s five of them. Twintuplets?

Both of Robin’s hands remain at her sides, letting Mr. DNA’s right hover before her. 

“You cannot be in here right now,” she tells them, regaining her composure all at once. “My roommate’s going to be home in like twenty minutes and if she comes home and finds you here she’s going to lose her goddamn mind, and if that happens then I’ll be lucky if all I lose are my Netflix privileges.”

She takes a step back, stabbing a finger insistently at the bathroom door.

“Get out, get dressed. And that doesn’t just mean out of the bath, it means out of the apartment. I don’t care what order you do it in, just do it quick.”

    The brothers look amongst themselves in shock. How casual a response. A careful eschewing similar to that of the attitude after one-night-stands. Does she think she slept with all five of them?

    “Disgusting!”     “Yeah, what’s wrong with you?”     “That’s INSECT.”     “It’s INCEST, dipshit.”     “Selfcest. Have you ever read a fanfiction before, Tommy?”     “Nope.” 

    While the brothers discuss Onceler in the tub, refusing to budge from their bath which is beginning to smell sickeningly sweet and the air tinged with a flavor similar to sour candy, the handsomest one, Gunkid, emerges from the bath and puts a hand on Robin’s shoulder.

     “No one can see us but you.”      Mr. DNA adds, squeezing his little brother’s face in admiration, “Lucky, you’re so lucky.”

[juniordna-blog1]

[juniordna-blog1]

[juniordna-blog1]

@warpedfun | WELCOME.

     They feel up, up, up, their hands stretching, surveying, and it stops at their neck. There’s no stub, no flesh, just a ghostly fade where the neck ends and the jaw begins. 

     “Oh, NO!” they manage to speak regardless of their headlessness.      “We got a stupid one!”

     The stupid ones are mindless--and therefore faceless, for beauty cannot replace the idiocy of nature in the long run. “We’ve been guillotined!”

     One of the headless suburbans jabs a finger into Dandy’s chest. “Not only is he stupid, he’s also a big brute. A dumb jock. Hideous. Time to educate him.”

     When they reach in their pockets for the zipper, they come out with only a pacifier. Sighing in disappointment, the headless group grumbles in unison: “A manchild, too. We’ve got our work cut out for us, my brothers.”

[juniordna-blog1]

when an character’s rules conflict your character’s entire premise but they followed u and u wanna make em a starter.....

[juniordna-blog1]

@soddenpaws | WELCOME.

     “Ewww... everything in here smells like stardust and rust.”

     That earns Tom a punch in the arm from Gunkid. “Shut up, Nabokov. I think it’s nice.”

     “You only think that because she’s pretty.”

     Resounding agreement on all sides--for she is pretty and if this is recognized by her it is the same by them. They’re waiting for her outside her place--that one diner or bar or whatever it is. Don’t ask them, they can’t read the sign. It’s far too bright, humming like a cicada in this pink neon that sets everyone in Valentine’s flushed pink, including the hot summery night sky.

     “Oh, hello, Bear! Hello! We’re here to make you stop pretending you don’t have mental issues!”