#NATIONAL BLACK DOG DAY

[nationaldaycalendar]

October 1, 2022 - NATIONAL GREEN CITY DAY - NATIONAL CRYPTOCURRENCY MONTH - NATIONAL HAIR DAY – NATIONAL BLACK DOG DAY – NATIONAL HOMEMADE COOKIES DAY – NATIONAL FIRE PUP DAY – NATIONAL PUMPKIN SPICE DAY

October 1, 2022 – NATIONAL GREEN CITY DAY – NATIONAL CRYPTOCURRENCY MONTH – NATIONAL HAIR DAY – NATIONAL BLACK DOG DAY – NATIONAL HOMEMADE COOKIES DAY – NATIONAL FIRE PUP DAY – NATIONAL PUMPKIN SPICE DAY

OCTOBER 1, 2022 | NATIONAL GREEN CITY DAY | NATIONAL CRYPTOCURRENCY MONTH | NATIONAL HAIR DAY | NATIONAL BLACK DOG DAY | NATIONAL HOMEMADE COOKIES DAY | NATIONAL FIRE PUP DAY | NATIONAL PUMPKIN SPICE DAY NATIONAL GREEN CITY DAY | October 1 On October 1 we celebrate National Green City Day to highlight the progress and innovations cities are making to become more sustainable. Read more… NATIONAL…

[yutamayo]

...is it that obvious?

[schlock-luster-video]

On June 17, 1976, Dog Day Afternoon debuted in Gent, Belgium.

Here's some new Al Pacino art!

[chloezara11]

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A post shared by Chloe Jackson (@chloezara94)

I’ll Love You Forever Little Man. 🐾🩵 #nationaldogday #dog #dogsofinstagram #labrador #collie #borador #family #blackandwhite #love #specialbond #bestfriend #neverforget

[sh1-n0bu]

𝔫𝔬𝔟𝔲’𝔰 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔬𝔣 2023!

day 30: choking with il dottore from genshin impact

warnings: choking, slapping, usage of aphrodisiac, dottore is a masochist, cockstepping, foot humping, degrading, cumming untouched, reader is a harbinger

notes: can you guys just tell that i fucking despise this rat????

as harbingers of the tsaritsa and a group of very unlovable, twisted, evil and just genuinely not-so-good people, disturbance at workplace was common. of course, said disturbance ranges from a simple hiss of “i fucking hate you. i hope your next mission goes so unwell that the only casualty will be your tattered corpse” to whatever this is. this could have easily been called as something that most people would call as ‘hate sex’ if only the both of you were not fully clothed.

so technically, this would be counted as ‘hate masturbating’? ah, fuck the labels or those things. right now, the only focus on your mind was to put this annoying bastard in his place.

he really thought he was the shit, didn’t he? the absolute galls of this motherfucker to even dare to put you down and insult you in front of your own subordinates. not just that, he went ahead and put aphrodisiacs into your coffee and his own like the absolute lunatic he was.

how badly you wanted to crush his windpipes in. that would oh so easy with your current position of your hand wrapped nicely around his neck like those beautiful chokers you see on some certain accessory shops. or even one that resembles a collar that is bound tightly around the neck of a rabies infested animal. but with a deranged doctor like dottore, the latter description seem to fit well with how he was moaning and wheezing, clothed cock humping your boots as he panted like a dog.

“you really are a detestable creature, you know that?” you hiss in sheer and utter anger, your other hand joining the other to wrap around his throat more forcefully. both hands on his neck, ready to crush his windpipes in if you wanted.

you had the power. a harbinger who’s currently in the position of tenth may be considered weak amongst fellow harbingers but even then, the tenth fatui harbinger is more than capable to shake an entire nation and to be seen as a threat to an archon.

and that tenth harbinger is you.

so even if dottore may be the second, one of the few who has the capacity to rival a god, right now he was nothing more than a pathetic dog who was humping your shoe. panting and whining loudly with his tongue stuck out, the mad doctor only focuses on the feeling of your hands choking him and the hardened leather of your shoes.

“y-yes.. yes yessshh yesyesyesyesyes oh archons, yes. i am. i’m a detestable creature. your detestable creature” dottore chokes on his spit, a wheezing shrill moan escaping his open mouth as his drool drips down his chin. he seems to like being degraded like this, the movements of his humping becoming more and more frantic on your shoe.

red eyes rolling to the back of his skull, sharp gasps and squeals following until he swore he could see black dots in his vision. he didn’t wanted to have the black spots dancing in his vision! because if so, how was he going to see you? he wanted to see you. that look of just pure anger on your face as you choke the daylights out of him and let him hump you like a dog in heat. no, he needed to see you.

“aaANGH—! kyuuck hhang♡︎♡︎ gck! ♡︎♡︎” a loud intake of breath is heard as your hands let go of the position around his neck, allowing him to breathe for a moment. not too long after, without even allowing him to catch a full breath, his head lolls to the side with a stinging feeling on the side of his cheek. did you just…?

“eyes on me. who said you could go around tearing your gaze away from me, rat” he could briefly hear your voice hiss through the ringing in his ears. muffled, faint, hard to tell if the voice was truly falling from your lips or if it was one of his manic episode voices talking.

either way, it was still your voice that was blessing his ears. it was your shoe that was now stepping on his clothed, weeping cock and he was thankful. maniac and downright insane but dottore knows a holy being when he sees and hears one. he may have not worshipped any of the archons, but for you? the mad doctor would gladly kiss the soles of your shoes over and over. hell, he would even thank you just for being in the same room as you.

call him unstable as much as you would like and he knows that. he even revels in the title and he would gladly wear that title for his entire life if he could be with you. dottore always had this odd obsession with you. since your titling of becoming the tenth fatui harbinger, he had developed this odd sense of fascination.

fascination to dottore, but unhealthy obsession to others.

not like the doctor cares. he had long since gave up trying to reason with other beings and had lost almost all contact with social interaction if not for the harbingers gathering or his experiments with his lab rats. until you joined his ranks.

“i said eyes on me, doctor” you grunt, slapping him across his face again. on the other cheek this time. that seemed to have done the work to catch his attention successfully as his hazy blood eyes focus on you. his cheeks were the same shade of red as his eyes, however it was hard to tell whether it was from your forceful hits or his blushing.

“ougck—! yess.. ye-es yes yesyesyesyes, eyes on you♡︎eyes solely on you♡︎” the blue haired man nods frantically, slight twitch and wince in his eyes showing that the added pressure to his cock was just a tad bit painful for him. even a masochist has their limits. but did he care? no. no he absolutely did not care. if anything, the crazy doctor wanted it to hurt since it was you who was delivering these delicious cocktail of pleasure and pain. he wanted it to hurt. he wanted it to feel good.

with another slap to his cheek for his continued disobedience — for constantly trying to look down at where your shoe was stepping on his stained pants — the doctor lets out a choked noise akin to a mewl before his entire body spasms. thighs shaking and twitching before a strangled noise is let out as the stain in his pants become darker and darker. the stain moving and spreading, some of it even seeping through the fabrics of his clothes as it drips onto the floor below.

“did you… just cum untouched?” you ask, doing a double take as you lift up your shoe to stare at the white translucent juice drip down onto the floor, leaving a tiny puddle. dottore only giggles, almost as if he was in a drunken haze, as he slowly lifts up his face to stare at you. he looked positively fucked up.

“do that again, pleaasshee♡︎?” dottore drawls out.

[hypnoticsphere]

(zukka thoughts) I really wish we could see Hakoda’s thought process throughout boiling rock and before. Imagine you see your son for the first time in two years and you have to listen to him talk about this fuck ass jerk-bending prince the entire time. At first, Hakoda understands, this “Jerk-bender” has been tormenting him, Katara and the rest of his friends for months now. Hakoda is angry, making comments that of course he’d be just like his father and that’s when Sokka stops, scrunched up his face and says, “What? No he’s not.”

Hakoda is, well, he’s confused. And Sokka just keeps going on. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not evil. I’d say he’s more like an angry polar-dog puppy. More bark, less bite.”

“You said he burnt down Kyoshi village.”

“Well, yeah, but he didn’t kill anyone.”

“So, you don’t hate him?”

“What? Of course I do.”

Hakoda is so confused.

He should mention the fact that Sokka, on multiple occasions, complained about how good his sword fighting is.

“I mean it’s ridiculous. He’s a bender and a sword fighter? A good one at that! Him and his stupid pretty face.”

“What?”

“What?”

They didn’t talk for a little bit after that.

—

And then, Boiling Rock happens. The day of the black sun came and went and Hakoda found himself separated from his children once more and thrown into the Fire Nation’s top security prison.

Only to then be broken out by his teenage son and the prince of the fire nation. The prince of the fire nation who was standing suspiciously close to said teenage son.

Hakoda felt that prison was better than having to deal with his Sokka being in love with the moody, traumatized soon to be Fire Lord.

[emilybeemartin]

Just to tie in my two themes this month----

Additional notes, because poll options apparently limit their characters:

Frodo finds great peace in watching the tides rise and fall throughout each day. He attends all the ranger programs on birds and seashells and fills pages with sketches and poetry.

Sam meticulously selects postcards in the gift shop for each of his friends and spends a whole morning writing and addressing them. He also buys Junior Ranger hats for his kids and a variety of Appalachian jams for Rosie.

Park rangers launch a Missing Person search for Aragorn when they realize his car's been parked at Avalanche Creek for three days. The search runs for almost a week before he comes strolling out the opposite side of the park, supporting one of the SAR techs who twisted an ankle during the search.

Legolas is first drawn to Olympic for the towering, mossy temperate rainforests, but the ground goes out from under him when he steps onto Second Beach for the first time. He spends an entire day watching the light and tides shift on the sea stacks, and he leaves feeling both full and hollow, like a bell that's just been rung.

Mammoth is only Gimli's first stop on a cavern tour, followed by Jewel and Wind Caves and Carlsbad Caverns. Wind Cave is his favorite for the unusual formations. He makes an obnoxious tween boy cry in Carlsbad for breaking off a speleothem.

Boromir is on a tour of military parks. He asks so many questions to the intern working the info station at Fort Sumter the kid has to go find the park historian. His favorite site is Vicksburg because that place was buckwild, though he silently judges one of the reenactors for his clumsy handling of a black powder rifle.

Merry also makes stops in Jurassic and Dinosaur National Monuments. He watches every park video, takes selfies in front of all the fossil exhibits, and earns his Junior Ranger badge at each one. He buys a keychain for Pippin.

Pippin actually gets four citations, mostly for trying to stick his hands in mud pots. He doesn't mean anything by it---he's just so delighted and curious about the bizarre landscape. He winds up with several thermal burns and dumps a king's ransom in the donation box on his last day.

Gandalf gets dinged by rangers for not paying the $5 fee for Trunk Bay, but he acts senile until they eventually decide to drop it. He gets postcards from everyone and responds to none of them.

Faramir and Eowyn are traveling together and do many of the same hikes and rides, but they do have some different preferences off-trail. Eowyn drags Faramir to a rodeo and the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar in Jackson Hole, and he goads her into Ranger Shelton Johnson's living history programs on the Buffalo Soldiers in Yosemite.

Eomer is bike-packing on his sport cruiser motorcycle. He goes to Roosevelt south unit for the wild horse herds but ends up spending half a day watching a prairie dog town. He takes 400 photos of them, mostly blurry, and texts them to Eowyn.

[2000s-music-tourney]

Okay so here are the current 32 songs that will be entered into the 2000s music tourney, the next 32 will be determined via submissions

Pokerface by Lady Gaga

Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance

Toxic by Britney Spears

Sk8ter Boi by Avril Lavigne

All my Life by Foo Fighters

American Idiot by Green Day

1985 by Bowling for Soup

Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand

Somebody Told Me by the Killers

Hey There Delilah by Plain White Tees

Feel Good Inc by the Gorillaz

Sugar we're goin down by Fallout Boy

Brave as a noun by AJJ

Hot N Cold by Katy Perry

Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) by Beyonce

The Dog Days are Over by Florence + the Machine

Seven Nation Army by White Stripes

Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down

She Hates Me by Puddle Of Mudd

Stacy's Mom by Fountains for Wayne

All the Small Things By Blink 182

Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

Hurt by Johnny Cash

Hey Ya by Outkast

Rehab by Amy Winehouse

Stan by Eminem

Do you realize by The Flaming Lips

Sexyback by Justin Timberlake

Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus

Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) by Train

Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers

Fireflies by Owl city

[astralnymphh]

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

  May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

  Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

  But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

  Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

  Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

  Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette. 

  And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

  Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

  January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

  February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

  March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet. 

  April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

  You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

  The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

  Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

  Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

  But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

  A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

  Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

  Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde. 

  Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ‘Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

  “Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

  The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

  A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper.  You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

  You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

  One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

  Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

  What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

  Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

  Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

  All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

  “Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..” 

  Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

  Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..” 

  Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right? 

  One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

  You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

  “Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

  Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood. 

  Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence. 

“Say cheese!”

  America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

  A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

  Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

 The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you. 

  Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

  Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

  An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

  A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

  Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’. 

Un–fucking–believable. 

  Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

  Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

  After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed. 

  “C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

  Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

  Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

  Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels. 

  Not so good for the respiratory system though.

  Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—” 

  Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

  “Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

  Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

  Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?” 

  A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

  But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

  Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

  “This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.” 

  Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

  You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

  The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

    Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

  “Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

  Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

  “Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

  “Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama. 

  And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

  “You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

  “Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

  “Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

  “For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

  “Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

  “Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

  “Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

  Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy,  “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

  “That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”  

  Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

  And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting. 

  “Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

  You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

  “If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

  Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

  Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?” 

  “Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

  Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.” 

  “Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

  A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles. 

  “Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

  “I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.” 

  Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

  “Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

  Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

  Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

  A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.” 

 You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant. 

  There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

  A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

  “Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

  “No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

  Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

  Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

  “Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

  That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together. 

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

  Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco. 

Stygian tones.

  “Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

  “Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

  “Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

  In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more. 

  Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting. 

  “Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

  Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

  A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.” 

  They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

  There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.” 

  “My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

  “Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

  “Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

  Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

  “Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

  You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

  “Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

  By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

[best-overplayed-song]

Best Overplayed Song Bracket (part two) - round one

full playlist here

side A

dreams (fleetwood mac) vs here comes the sun

yesterday vs the sound of silence

old town road vs jolene

it’s tricky vs low

despacito vs smooth

some nights vs take me to church

stolen dance vs cigarette daydreams

every breath you take vs billie jean

tiny dancer vs hey jude

what’s up? vs dreams (the cranberries)

drops of jupiter vs over my head (cable car)

wake me up when september ends vs wonderwall

welcome to the black parade vs all the small things

somebody to love vs killer queen

californication vs santeria

escape (the pina colada song) vs margaritaville

roxanne vs brown eyed girl

sweet home alabama vs free fallin’

edge of seventeen vs you spin me round

american pie vs life is a highway

freebird vs stairway to heaven

everybody wants to rule the world vs don’t fear the reaper

we didn’t start the fire vs don’t stop me now

stacy’s mom vs we built this city

the chain vs we will rock you

immigrant song vs seven nation army

the final countdown vs eye of the tiger

sweet child o’ mine vs highway to hell

livin’ on a prayer vs i love rock n’ roll

one way or another vs zombie

side B

bubbly vs unwritten

careless whisper vs time after time

dancing queen vs september

everywhere vs little lies

get lucky vs boom, boom, boom, boom!!

hey, soul sister vs best day of my life

a thousand miles vs i’m like a bird

i want it that way vs oops!... i did it again

bad romance vs toxic

wake me up vs stronger (what doesn’t kill you)

before he cheats vs love song

firework vs born this way

i write sins not tragedies vs dynamite

poker face vs tik tok

tongue tied vs truth hurts

payphone vs fireflies

just dance vs ...baby one more time

like a prayer vs running up that hill

sugar, we’re goin’ down vs dog days are over

rolling in the deep vs ironic

pompeii vs centuries

thnks fr th mmrs vs ain’t it fun

love shack vs video killed the radio star

mr. blue sky vs hooked on a feeling

viva la vida vs paradise

total eclipse of the heart vs in the air tonight

feel it still vs pumped up kicks

YMCA vs 867-5309/jenny

blinding lights vs take on me

africa vs more than a feeling

View previous bracket here

[keepwaitingforyou]

do you have any facts about dylann that are your favourites? could you share them with us? :3

I already answered this question this morning on my other blog but I'll give some more bc why not

there are supposedly hundreds more photos that he took that still haven't been released to the public

he wrote a letter to tucker carlson

apparently he'd leave in the middle of conversations and go listen to music in his car

in his interrogation, he very incorrectly guessed how long he stayed in the church and forgot what month and day of the week it was

when someone would try to quote dylann, they'd have to get every word exactly how he said it, or else he would say that they're wrong

in 2016 he said he'd rather have bernie sanders as the president than donald trump or hillary clinton

he thought his message would get across better if there were only black people on the jury because he thought white people would want to give him the death penalty so they wouldn't seem racist

he got passport photos taken at cvs. i have no clue why.

when he was a kid, whenever he'd go out to eat with his family he'd almost always order spaghetti

there was a map of the world on the wall of his bathroom and a chair right next to the toilet

and here are the facts from my other post since that blog got termed anyway:

- I've never seen anyone bring this up, but in his bank statements it shows that he went to an aquarium in charleston

- Dylann had a friend who died in November 2013, and he left a tribute on his obituary in May 2015

- his favorite photo is the one he took with the slave mannequins at boone hall plantation

- Dylann bought the rhodesia and apartheid south africa patches on his jacket on the same day that he registered the lastrhodesian.com domain in February 2015, but didn't put his manifesto on his website until the day of the shooting

- he seemed to mostly listen to music on cassette tapes, and asked someone on stormfront if they'd be willing to sell cassettes to him

- he's been described by people who have talked with him and saw him after the shooting as "gentle", "childlike", "polite", "mostly passive and submissive in dealing with others", "wary and sensitive"

- at one point he said he wanted to get a job as a retail worker but thought no one would hire him because of the way he looks

- when dylann was in middle school, he saw a band live and then asked his mom if they could stay in their house. his mom's boyfriend at the time allowed it and the band slept in the basement

- when he was a kid he went on vacation with his family to the florida keys, which was the only time his dad was able to remember dylann befriending someone else

- dylann wanted to change his middle name

- some of his other interests before white nationalism were Star Wars, Maple Story, Bionicles, dogs, and dinosaurs

- Dylann is too shy, socially inept, and easily embarrassed to engage in conversation a lot of the time. He speaks softly and usually only gives one or two word answers. When he'd ask the manager at Clark's for a day off of work, he'd "wring his hands in nervousness"

[miraclerizuin]

october 1st is National Black Dog Day. does anybody know of a fandom that might be interested in this information

[beatrice-otter]

I really like John Scalzi's analysis of the whole wtfery of this. (I'm not a great fan of his books, I think he's really overrated as a novelist, but his political commentary and commentary on the SF/F world is interesting.)

I think he has a good point about how while the initial panic about his bad performance at the debate was genuine (and if he'd done better, he'd never have withdrawn), but also that once there was panic, he decided how to manage things to maximize Harris' chances at both getting the nomination and winning the election.

Consider that the announcement was made on the Sunday after the Republican National Convention, and after the Sunday morning political talk shows were put to bed, i.e., after the GOP political capital was spent slagging Biden, and when professional spinners would be caught flat-footed by the announcement. Biden’s news was quickly followed by his endorsement of Kamala Harris, which in turn was followed by a flood of endorsements for Harris across the Democratic political firmament, effectively slamming the door on any serious challenge to Harris at the upcoming Democratic National Convention. If you think something like that just happens spontaneously, well, one, bless your heart, and two, you’re wrong. This was a work, a rope-a-dope, and a strategy to energize the Democratic base and to toss what little momentum the GOP had coming out of their convention down a deep, dark hole. And it worked! Harris raised an huge amount of money for her campaign in its first day — $49 million at least, and I’ve heard up to $70 million — and the GOP messaging was in disarray, limited largely to Trump whining on Truth Social, Stephen Miller freaking out on Fox News, and Mike Johnson trying to suggest that the Democrats can’t do that, it isn’t fair. Which is just what the Democrats wanted out of this. ... The current iteration of the GOP has been mask-off racist and sexist for some time, and Donald Trump sets the tone for the party on this score. Be expecting the whole array of nonsense from them, from dog whistles to flat out racist and sexist shit, said out loud, and also all over the former Twitter by Trump’s pet fascists and/or Russian bots. I guarantee you it will be nothing Kamala Harris has not heard before, but you might see a couple of new ones. The GOP outsourced their policy making to The Heritage Foundation with its Project 2025, which is already deeply unpopular, probably because it’s terrible for anyone who is not already a billionaire cryptofascist with a cross fetish. The GOP can’t go after Harris on policy grounds, and Trump doesn’t do policy anyway. So expect endless variations of she’s an uppity black woman for the next several months. ... Also, Biden has manifestly changed the narrative around both himself and his presidency. I didn’t want him to stop running for re-election, but choosing to do so allows for a “country over self” positioning that’s a hugely effective contrast to Trump’s “I’m running to avoid prison and to get revenge” narrative. It also allows a fresh reframing of the Biden administration’s achievements and accomplishments, and positions Harris to say she will continue them. Biden can lean into the whole “Grandpa Joe” thing now, and have it seen as a positive rather than a negative. ... To put it another way, after eight years, we know what the hard cap is on Trump’s support. We don’t know what the cap is yet for Harris’ support. History does suggest that cap is higher than Trump’s.

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 20 June 1967, boxing legend Muhammad Ali was convicted for refusing the draft for the Vietnam war in Houston, Texas. Ali had been a vocal opponent of the US war, saying “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home and drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” To try to quell the escalating resistance to the war, Ali was given the maximum sentence of five years imprisonment and a $10,000 fine. But their efforts were unsuccessful, and the anti-war movement continued to grow. Despite the Nation of Islam beginning to distance themselves from Ali, demonstrations supporting him took place around the world, from Egypt to Guyana to London to Ghana. Four years later his conviction was overturned by the Supreme Court. Ali had no regrets: "I wasn’t trying to be a leader. I just wanted to be free. And I made a stand all people, not just Black people, should have thought about making, because it wasn’t just Black people being drafted. The government had a system where the rich man’s son went to college, and the poor man’s son went to war. Then, after the rich man’s son got out of college, he did other things to keep him out of the Army until he was too old to be drafted." Learn more about the movement against the Vietnam war in our podcast episodes 43-46: https://workingclasshistory.com/2020/09/23/e43-46-the-movement-against-the-vietnam-war-in-the-us/ https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=647623424077543&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[selfaware-bungou-stray-dogs]

Self-Aware! BSD x SAGAU Imposter AU Crossover ideas. Port Mafia Edition

Previous posts [I] [II] [III] [V] [VI] [VII] [VIII] [IX]

💉 Ougai Mori has his own nemesis. Zhongli hurt you and made you fear Mori's voice. Mori's goal is to destroy Zhongli's precious Liyue. Ougai will shower you with gifts, while you are recovering.

🍷 Even if all people with Geo Vision, Azdaha and Morax in a peak of his power will try to stop him, they won't stop Chuuya Nakahara. He won't even need to use the Corruption. He will make them pay for what they have done to you.

Chuuya will bring you gems he found in Teyvat. If the gems in question are valuable on Earth, he will sell them and will use the money on whatever you want. You can burn them, donate them, save them.

🌂 Kouyou Ozaki will become the nightmare for Inazuma's citizens. She and Golden Demon are silent and deadly. And no one will suspect a thing, Ranpo will make sure of it.

She will spend time with you, will let you pet Golden Demon.

🇫🇷 Paul Verlaine will become Teyvat Nightmare. Back in the app, he got his powers back, thanks to the messing with cards. If needed, he will unleash Demonic Beast Guivre on seven nations.

He will let you bride his hair. Makes sure, that you are healthy and happy.

🎧 Arthur Rimbaud is back to being a spy. He is ready to go to any nation he needs (even Snezhnaya). He and Verlaine will sabotage Dottore's work.

His hyperspace became one of the safest places for you. He will share his coat with you.

🏍️ Albatross is staying by your side, but, he is ready to sabotage any vehicle from Teyvat. He will take you on a motorcycle rides.

🧑‍⚕️ Doc is always checking your health. People of Teyvat take a number on you, and, while Yosano's ability did its job, he is concerned about mental scars.

🧊 While Iceman doesn't bear any grudges, he will make an exception for Teyvat's people. He will show them the hit man of Port Mafia.

He will listen to his records together with you.

🗣️ Lippman is doing his best in negotiating and tricking Teyvat officials. One day, even 'The Creator', that order to hunt you, will fall for his lies.

He will arrange spontaneous spa days for you. Your skin and hair were never that pretty.

🎹 Piano Man is using his skills to create fake mora. Mora are important not only as money, but in an alchemy. Soon Teyvat citizens won't be sure, if their money are real or not.

He will tell you funny stories he has heard. If it makes you happy, he will pronounce you an Honorary Flags member.

🧥 Akutagawa Ryunosuke and Rashomon like a black storm tear through Teyvat. Nothing will stop them. He feels guilty. He is your bodyguard and he failed you. He will undo his mistakes.

While on Earth, he won't leave your side. Will make hammock from Rashomon for you.

🔫 Ichiyou Higuichi is another spy. She will gather information from Liyue, getting close to Ninguang.

Will bring you fresh rumors.

🚬 Ryuurou Hirotsu is dealing with Treasure Hoarders and other criminal organizations. Black Lizards knew, how to show low criminals their place.

He will tell you stories about his youth (some of them are fictional, but, he is happy, when these stories make you smile).

🔪 Gin Akutagawa is a spy in Inazuma. She will get into Narukami Shrine as one of the shrine maidens.

She and Akutagawa will spend quiet evenings with you, watching movies.

🩹🧲 Tachihara Michizou is overworked. He is dealing with criminal organizations of Teyvat as Port Mafia member, and with official organizations of Teyvat (Fatui, Knights of Favonius...) as Hunting Dog. He won't stop. He wants to make them pay. Tachihara will use his ability to destroy factories.

🍰 Elise is staying near you. She is making sure, that you always have snacks and water. She will let you choose her outfit, take her to a shopping trip. She will listen to everything you say.

Waiting for the day she and Mori will face against Zhongli.

💎 Karma is reading you your favorite books. Doesn't matter, if the book is boring or scary, he will read it to you. Always worried about you.

⭐⭕ Kyuusaku Yumeno are waiting. From time to time, they are called by Mori to take a stroll in the main city of random nation. And every time, the stroll ends up in injuries. Not Q's.

They will try to make you smile. Offered you to play or cuddle with their doll.

🍋 Kaji Motojirou will drown Teyvat markets in lemon bombs. And, until his command, they won't detonate. He is waiting for a signal.

Kaji will show you easy and interesting scientific experiments.

🍛 Oda Sakunosuke is taking care of you. While he is ready to go to Teyvat, he decided to spoil you and make happy.

_____

Tag list: @withered-blossoms

[justcressida]

How Do Record Of Ragnarok Characters Deal With Turkish Women?

(The reason why the reader behaves annoyingly towards the Greeks is because of the confusion of food and culture)

(Actually, they can't cope, but that's a secret. Also, the nationalist cat in me is acting, don't blame me)

THOR

You look at his damn face and think he's calm, right? You're absolutely wrong.

You're not much different from a pair of rabid dogs. Thor isn't much of a social God, and no one can figure out how this guy came together with a chaotic leg.

He saw a lot, he didn't think he would be surprised by anything for the rest of his life... Until I met you.

You howled as you gave the middle finger to the Greek Gods??? Like a real wolf??

Really, truly in his immortal life, he had never been so surprised. He wasn't very interested in races, but when he learned that the Turks were descended from wolves, that strange gesture made sense

He observed that he was a very passionate person. You were proud to be proud of your culture and treated your ancestors with great respect.

You also said that you were going to make him eat a weird thing called kebab once and if he didn't like it you would shove the skewer used to cook the dish called kebab up his ass??

LOKİ

A scary couple that you have to run away from no matter what.

Similarly, he found you eating fish and grinning wickedly in front of Poseidon. You were eating while looking Poseidon in the eye, and Hades had to intervene to prevent Poseidon from killing you

FOUND IT VERY FUN

You are such a chaotic couple. Even Loki is sometimes very afraid of you, though. I mean, what madman would have a big 'National Anthem' painting made in the room and then have the entire Scandinavian Pantheon read it at knifepoint?

Whenever he doesn't like any Turkish food, you recite an epic of Turkish profanity to him, so he has learned to go to your senses.

Your favorite activity is to make people hell with life.

You speak so much Turkish that he knows all the Turkish swear words thanks to you.

BUDDHA

The love of his life.

Buddha always does whatever he wants, similarly you are the perfect couple as your favorite activity is breaking the rules.

Because his stomach is a black hole, you and your whole family are constantly cooking a lot for him. Your possessive attitude towards food surprises him a little, but at the end of the day, he doesn't care much because it's profitable.

You drive him crazy by speaking in Turkish. Really... You grin wickedly after saying a lot of Turkish things to kill him out of curiosity.

.... After a while, he ate so much lahmacun that his stomach hurt for a long time.

POSEİDON

The funny thing is that you do everything to drive Poseidon crazy, and what's even funnier is that you're married.

He might actually laugh if he stopped freaking out because of your disrespect, but for Atlantis' sake, why look at the sirens and "If we cut this, we'd make 2 pounds of anchovy pan... I'm craving it." What do you need to say?

(In Atlantis, everyone runs away from you because they're afraid you'll grill them)

He decided to stay away from you because you broke the painting 'Gençliğe Hitabe' to Apollo in his head.

... He is scared and aroused.

APOLLO

You broke a painting in his head and told him, and you said 'Yavşak piç'

He later found out that it meant "Squirrel bastard" and was defeated because of your audacity.

No one knows how you came together, but they're most surprised that you treat Apollo like shit.

"How are you today, little bitch?"

Although Apollo was partially accustomed to your chaotic behavior, what surprised him was that you loved each other by beating each other. When your best friend hit you on the buttocks in front of everyone, you tore her hair out and then hugged each other on the floor???

Also did you love each other by swearing???

Strange, but Apollo liked it