#and our cat nicknames are just as bad if not worse than tim comes up with AHAHAH xD....not drawin on experience at all nope not me >_>

[purge-that-urge-rhackathon]

Is there any possible way you could write something really short about Tim getting therapy via room full of mewling kittens, just like pure fluff, literally and figuratively. Thank, also ur a super chill person.

Those cards in our cards against humanity game really did cinch this one huh? ahaha here we are! :D

This labeled as Atomic Cat-Astrophe. Also found on my ao3 here. My masterlist archive of bullshit i write can be found linked at the top of the blog or you can click here.

–

As someone whose every waking hour was dedicated to looking like Handsome Jack, speaking like Handsome Jack, and thinking like Handsome Jack, the wants and desires of a technically non-existent Timothy Lawrence were actually rather simple to sum up.

The three things Timothy Lawrence wanted in life were simple: Timothy Lawrence, Timothy Lawrence holding kittens, and pictures of cats.

Being Jack’s body double sadly didn’t afford him the time to dedicate to keeping a cat. Oh, Jack more than allowed it, but he said from day one that he wouldn’t be the one feeding Tim’s cat when he was out on missions, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be cleaning its litter box.

Tim’s existence in itself didn’t lend to him having to many trustworthy compatriots to take over said duties, so he could only dream of a warm, shaggy cat getting it’s fur all over the place and mewing at him for treats. With no one to watch over a cat while he was away for Jack only knew how long, he couldn’t bear the idea of some emergency or something coming up and the cat being all alone. A warm fluffy friend was simply not in the plans.

That situation led to Tim’s apartment wall above his desk being filled with cat posters, his computer filled with cat videos, and his desk loaded with cat knick-knacks and bobble-heads that really didn’t compare to the real thing.

They were all super cute, and he gushed every time he added something new to his kitty collection, but he often found himself asking what the point even was when he was gone too much to enjoy the simple pleasures of a debt-ridden doppleganger.

Jack said that if Tim was having trouble coping or dealing with the stress of his job, that he was always welcome to do some creative bending over the front of the older man’s desk. Preferably with no pants on, and his voiced concerns echoing off the walls.

That option being shot down, the older man shockingly suggested some light therapy.

“Can’t have my best double going bonkers. I don’t know what kind of shit you’d even have to be stressed over– I mean, being me is freakin’ awesome- but I don’t need you losing your edge, kitten.”

While not what Jack had intended, the little suggestion of stress-relief and the endearment had gotten Tim to thinking. While not a real doctor, Professor Fluffers down at the cat cafe on Elpis had helped Tim cope with the stress of his job before– by giving the professor ample tuna treats and watching him try to get a string that Tim dragged across the floor.

It was spring on Elips– or as close to a ‘spring’ season as a moon would ever get- and the Atomic Cat-Astrophe cafe had a ton of new kittens just waiting for all the love and cuddles Tim could possibly lay on them.

With carte-blanche on his time limit and Jack’s own face, Tim had the entire cafe closed to himself– and the fifteen or so new kittens competing for his attention with the older, senior cats.

He was sure that if Jack could see him right now, the older man would be making noises of disgust for the ridiculous voices and expressions on his face for how Tim lavished affection on the cats. The kittens mewled loudly, demanding milk and climbing up his pants and jacket with their little needle claws, tiny rat tails trying to keep their balance as they made their way up his sides.

He nuzzled each one he detached, their little bodies fully cupped in the palms of his large hands, trying to buy their patience long enough to serve up the milk to greedy little mouths and tiny paws stepping in dishes. He could feel the sting where sharp baby-claws had punctured his skin in their climbing, and they were getting milk everywhere as they uncoordinatedly jostled one another in purring slurps as they drank. Tim treasured every second of it.

Professor Fluffers was head-butting his leg, purring and begging for attention, and Tim sat amidst them all for maximum cat-petting per square-foot. He was glad no one was there to witness the cutesy kissy noises and baby-talk he gave the cats as he encouraged the kittens to share, and for the professor and Doctor Whiskers to get the string he dragged across the floor. Tim was in hog-heaven– er, cat heaven- as his ears were full of the pleased sounds of purring and chirruping, hands full of fluffy fur and string and ear-scritches of trusting, tiny cats everywhere he could reach.

“You are not serious.”

Tim started, looking behind himself in shock to see Jack– the real Jack- standing there with hands on his hips and something of a judgmental, unimpressed look aimed down where Tim sat.

The double felt his face grow hot, ignoring that the professor had wrested the string from his hand and was now carrying it back to his perch with a triumphant air; that a kitten was climbing his arm like a tree and demanding his attention with cries and claws. How focused had he been on the cats to not even notice Jack’s presence? To not hear the cheerful bell on the door, or the slap of the older man’s boots on the tile? He felt his face grow that much hotter.

“I had to see what was so great that you ignore my calls for two hours, and this is what I find.” Jack let out a laugh as he detached the small kitten that reached Tim’s shoulder, clutching the mewling thing with a large, warm hand to his chest while he snickered down at Tim. “If anyone ever saw that look on my face, I’d have to sell the company and go into hiding. That, or shoot everyone into the sun.” The older man snorted as another kitten started it’s journey up Tim’s arm, and he gave the one against his chest some chin scratches as his face broke into a grin. “This is what you’re spending my money on, huh pumpkin?”

“You told me I could get therapy.” Tim finally found his voice as another kitten’s claws found his skin. He winced and pulled the thing off to unrepentantly stroke it. “This is what works for me.”

Jack laughed. “So Dr. Whiskers isn’t just another weird-ass scientist.” Tim wrinkled his nose at the thought and gave the good doctor a look from where he was swishing his tail and observing the two on his cat tree next to the professor, watching Jack warily. “That’s a relief, kitten.”

Tim actually rolled his eyes at that while Jack acted like he’d just made the world’s funniest joke. The CEO wiped a non-existent tear from the corner of his eye before handing the unruly-kitten in his other hand back to his double.

“Okay baby, I can’t take the risk of those dumbass faces you’re making being released on the public. You’ll destroy my whole badass sexy-hero thing I’ve got going and I’ll never get laid again.” Tim gave him a frown, but Jack only grinned. “You can pick out one– just one- and I’ll reprogram a loader or some shit to look after it while you’re doing badass hero stuff for me. Make sure it doesn’t croak or nothing.”

Tim was gaping at the older man, ignoring the way Professor Fluffers was back and shoving his head into Tim’s hand, trying to steal the double’s attention away from Jack and back onto himself. Tim absently scratched the cat as his brain tried to wrap around what Jack had just said and if he’d even heard him right as he stared up at the CEO.

“Close that mouth or I’ll put something in it, gorgeous.”

“I can really have one? Really Jack? For real?”

The older man was smug and entirely self-satisfied, but that hardly mattered to Tim. Jack was allowing him a cat and care for it. That was more than he’d ever expected.

“That’s right cupcake. So long as you never make those faces in public again. You’ll destroy my reputation.”

Tim had stopped listening already and was eyeing the new kittens. He had his favorites to be sure, but the one that really tugged at his heart was the yellow sweetie with the ears far too large for his little head and a meow like a power drill. The little thing was still stuffing it’s face with milk and making pleased sounds in-between slurps.

Tim unrepentantly snatched him up, earning a meow in opposition to being taken from gorging itself, and cuddled the little guy against his chest. “Oh I wuv you mister kitty. We’re gonna call you Muffin. Yes we are. Or Sweetie-cake. Little sweetie! Because that’s what you are, oh yes it is.”

Jack was making sputtering sounds as if Tim had just insulted his hair. It earned a look up from the double, too happy to be ashamed of the sounds and affection he was giving to the cat cuddled to his chest and trying to escape his love.

“What? You can’t name a cat that! He’ll be a laughingstock!”

“He’s a cat. He doesn’t care.”

“Nuh-uh, no way. Something strong and badass–muffin, pfft, might as well call him Cupcake– No.” The smile growing on Tim’s face told Jack he was fighting an uphill battle. Stay away from the cutesy names. Away. “Something cool and heroic. Like lil’ badass! Oh no, Destroyer! No no wait, Bandit-killer! Little Bandit-killer! That’s a perfect name for a cat!”

Though Tim’s frown went ignored by Jack, and the kitten only cared about trying to get back to the milk saucers, Tim had to admit that bandit had a good ring to it. Especially if the cat grew up to steal socks or mail or even cash like his roommate’s cat in college.

As far as Jack was concerned, the cat was Bandit-Killer, badass extraordinaire, and that was nothing to be ashamed of even if Tim insisted on cuddling him and giving him cute little bow-collars and a cat-castle with frills.

Tim’s own nickname of Bandy-biddly-bopsy-bits was something the double would keep between him and the kitten. And maybe the newsletter group he joined under the name Jimothy. Aaaaand maybe the loader Jack had sent him to watch over the little guy when Tim was off doing badass hero stuff for the CEO.

And if the loader ever sighed over hearing the nicknames Tim called Bandit, well, the double reassured himself that robots couldn’t technically sigh anyways, and that he had an excellent taste in nicknames that a robot just wouldn’t understand regardless of whether Jack had programmed his personal taste to it or not.

So there.

[rigmarolling]

Five Things Abe Lincoln Did That Prove He Was A BAMF

I love Lincoln. You probably know this if you’ve listened to me talk for more than two seconds. I have a literal entire bookshelf filled with Lincoln stuff. I teared up in Great Moments With Mr. Lincoln at Disneyland. I cried so hard when I watched Lincoln (2012), that I almost started dry-heaving. I was Lincoln (sort of) for Halloween.

Is it a problem? No. It isn’t a problem, Mom. Because Lincoln was a 100% USDA-certified badass.

Don’t believe me? Here are ten things Abe did to prove he was absolutely a BAMF.

1. That time he jumped out a window to prevent a vote.

In 1840, the Illinois legislature was voting on whether or not to fund the state bank. Lincoln was a member of the Whig party, which did not require members to wear wigs, contrary to what the name suggests, but which did support saving the state bank. The opposing party, the Democrats (different political beliefs from modern-day democrats, do NOT come at me, Reddit dudebros) wanted to shut the State bank down.

It all came down to a vote...and it looked like the anti-state bank democrats were going to win. Abraham Lincoln, then a 31-year-old legislator who looked like the pioneer version of a Tim Burton character, was getting nervous. 

Above: Jack Skellington, 1840.

“Shit,” he thought, probably, “We Whigs are screwed if we lose this vote. And we don’t even get to wear wigs.”

The bank-hating democrats scheduled a vote to adjourn the session, which would effectively be the nail in the state bank’s coffin. Abe was panicking. He was the de facto leader of the Whigs; he had to do something. 

“Prove your mettle, boy,” he probably thought to himself in a folksy, backwoods kinda way. “Show ‘em you ain’t gonna give up.”

So Abe did what any self-respecting legislator would do when stuck between a rock and a hard place:

He jumped out the window of the legislature to stop the vote.

To be fair, Lincoln wasn’t the only one to opt for a morning act of defenestration: a bunch of the other Whigs joined in, too. The rationale was, essentially, this:

Which is peak Internet comedy, but unfortunately, it was 1840 and the Internet didn’t exist yet, so nobody appreciated the gesture and the democrats eventually wound up closing the bank, anyway. 

But at least Abe showed the entire state that he appreciated Looney Tunes-esque escape tactics.

2. That time he roasted a guy during a debate with good-old self-deprecating humor.

You ever rely on self-deprecating humor to beat people to the “yes, I KNOW I am offensive” punch?

So did our 16th president, Abraham Nicole Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name.)

When Lincoln was campaigning, his biggest rival was Stephen Douglas, the Democratic contender who was nicknamed “the little giant” because he was short but a heavy hitter in politics, and also because he looks like the kind of guy that just wouldn’t shut up at parties:

Above: “Actually, I’m not racist, BUT--”

In 1858, Lincoln and Douglas held a series of seven famous political debates called, brilliantly, The Lincoln-Douglas Debates, coming to you LIVE at Rockefeller Center, with performances by the Rockettes, Anna and Elsa on Ice, AND with special guest, Seal!

These debates were THE go-to political show of the season. If you were super into who would be elected to the Illinois Senate in the mid-19th century, then holy shit, you have got to watch these two men go at each other, man, it’s like watching a tree and an angry little dog slap each other across the stage.

During the debates, Lincoln quickly became famous for his one-liners, and also because no one had ever seen a talking tree in a suit before.

In one of the debates, Douglas accused Lincoln of being two-faced. Without missing a beat, Lincoln, who had been mocked his entire life for his ungainly, scarecrow-like appearance in the same way that I just mocked him a few sentences ago, whoops...

ANYWAY.

Lincoln turned to Douglas and went, “Honestly, if I were two-faced, would I be showing you this one?” 

And then the audience did this:

And then Lincoln was like:

Check. Mate. 

3. That time he was so strong and such a good wrestler that nobody messed with him.

When I say “wrestler,” what do you think of?

Is it this?

Maybe this?

What about this?

Huh? What’s that you say? “What the hell is...is that Lincoln? What...what the hell is Lincoln doing in a list of wrestlers?

“Um,” I answer, “Being a wrestler.”

Because Abraham Lincoln, 6′ 4″ and all of 150-something pounds, was, in fact, an incredibly talented wrestler.

So talented, in fact, that when it came to wrestling matches, he went undefeated for most of his life.

See, Lincoln grew up in the middle of butt crack-nowhere, out in the sticks of the American frontier. Ain’t no room for sissies out on the frontier. This here’s hard-scrabble country, see, rough-livin’; you gotta spit to live; you gotta live to spit; Neosporin? I think you mean weak-ass bitch cream.

So how did rootin’ tootin’ frontier folk blow off steam? Well, when they weren’t dying of dysentery or tuberculosis or minor infections that could today be cured by steady application of Neosporin, they were wrasslin’. And when it came to the act of picking someone up and throwing them back down, nobody wrestled like 21-year-old Abraham Justine Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name.)

One look at the guy and people were like, “The hell? What’s this ancient Egyptian mummy doing in the ring?”

But the second he got going, everyone shut up. Because this guy was nuts. He was a berserker. He could defeat a guy three times his size in seconds. He could bench the Rock, probably, and not even break a sweat.

He was the nicest guy in town. But nobody--and I mean nobody--messed with Abraham Ashley Lincoln.

(Not his real middle name).

One time, Jack Armstrong, the local heavyweight champion who was the Big Bad in town and undefeated in the wrestling and “I’m a giant asshole who smashes my way through problems” arena, challenged Lincoln to a match. 

“Uh oh,” everyone in the little town of New Salem, Illinois thought, “That’s it for ol’ Twig Legs Abe. He might be good, but there’s no way he can defeat Jack Armstrong. Nice knowing you, kid; it’s a shame, because you might have made a solid president.”

But Lincoln, who knew no fear and ate chains forged in the heart of a dwarven cavern for breakfast, was like, “Bring it on, bitch.”

Above: Playin’ with the boys.

Jack and Abe started sparring and Jack threw insult after insult Abe’s way. I don’t know exactly what Jack said, but it was probably the 19th century equivalent of, “You may have 2,300 Facebook friends but nobody cares about the pictures of your homemade Shake ‘N Bake chicken that you post, eggwad.”

Abe didn’t relent. 

See, he was getting angry.

Really angry.

So angry, in fact, that in one fell swoop, he suddenly slammed big Jack Armstrong to the ground so hard that Armstrong passed out, cold.

Abe had won. Everyone stared at the panting, growling, 6′4″ pine tree man in reverent awe. 

A fun epilogue to this story: after Jack Armstrong recovered from getting his ass handed to him by a guy who looked like an extra in a movie about the Amish, he and Abe remained steadfast buddies for the rest of their lives. 

Jack just never ever insulted Abraham Jessica Lincoln again.

(Not his real middle name.)

4. The (many) times he went off into long, rambling stories during Cabinet meetings to illustrate a point.

You know how grandma and grandpa sometimes go off on tangents and you’re like, “okay, okay, get to the point.”

But grandma and grandpa don’t even respond and just keep talking about that one time in 1953 that Anne-Marie told George that no, she hadn’t gone to the corner store, why do you keep asking, George? And then I said to George, I said, George, you need to listen to Anne-Marie because she knows that the corner store is the only one in town that sells fresh-laid eggs and Butterick circle skirt patterns, but did he listen? Did he listen to me? No, he didn’t, so I went to---

You get it.

So did every single member of Lincoln’s cabinet. Because Lincoln was a consummate storyteller, for better or for worse. 

(Sometimes for worse, depending on who you asked.)

Above: “One time, at band camp...”

Lincoln would interrupt important meetings about, you know, saving the Union and the soul of the country itself with anecdotes that started something like this:

Lincoln: You know, Sec. Stanton, that reminds me of a fur-trapper I knew back in Illinois--

Stanton: Great, except, Mr. President, everyone is dying--

Lincoln: Now this here fur trapper was the best fur trapper in the entire state. Not the entire country, mind you, on account of we didn’t really have a way of measuring fur-trapping skills nationwide--

Stanton: *neck turning purple* Mr. President--

Lincoln:--but definitely the best fur trapper in Illinois. Now one day, this fur trapper set out to do what he did best: shoot some raccoons, or maybe a bear, or a wolf if he was lucky, or a deer, or some moose, or a beaver, or a mongoose, or maybe a possum--

Stanton: OH MY GOD--

Lincoln:--or a cat, if times were desperate, but not a dog, never a dog, because this here fur trapper loved dogs; had six of ‘em himself, all hound dogs, loyal to a fault, see, because this here fur trapper--

Stanton: JUST STOP--

Lincoln: --this here fur trapper could be short-sighted. See, he set his sights one day on shooting the biggest bear in the mountains--and this bear, why, this here bear was a Goliath of a bear, the biggest bear anyone ever did see, the biggest bear in the state; not the biggest bear in the country, mind you, on account of we didn’t have a way of comparing bear sizes nationwide, but--

You get the gist.

Above: “So I’m sitting there, barbecue sauce on my tiddies--”

Eventually, Lincoln would get to the point of his story; in this example, for...um, example...maybe the moral was, “Don’t get so focused on one goal (shooting that big bear) that you loose sight of other objectives in the war (getting rid of the wolf pack killing all the sheep or whatever).”

I would like to explain to you why telling long, rambling grandpa stories was such a power move:

Abe Lincoln was the president. 

So his whole Cabinet had to listen.

And Abe Lincoln knew it.

They had to listen to this backwoods guy go on and on about how that one time the local long boatsman fell into the river actually serves as a metaphor for Gen. McClellan’s inability to take control of the troops; or how the rabid raccoon that lived in the local blacksmith’s shop can serve as a metaphor for acting too hastily when trying to take down the South. 

Or, like, whatever.

Above: “All here in favor of me performing the entirety of Les Mis starring me as everyone, raise your hands.”

Apparently, Lincoln was also the kind of storyteller who, if there was a funny punchline at the end, took forever to get to the punch line because he’d start laughing hysterically at his own joke, and while many people thought it was incredibly endearing, others were like, “Boy, I wonder what it would be like if I dumped this entire fucking bottle of ink over the president’s head to get him to shut the fuck up.”

Spoiler alert: Lincoln did not, in fact, shut the fuck up. He was determined to teach folks a lesson through the the power of storytelling and also to help break the tension of a legitimately horrible war with the power of laughter.

Monopolizing the conversation to prove a point with anecdotes about frontier living that no one can escape?

Power. Move.

5. Those times he let his kids run amok in the White House and thought it was hilarious.

Lincoln had a four kids, all boys, who moved into the White House after he was elected president.

And these boys were little terrors.

To be fair, a vast majority of boys are terrors. Kids are terrors. They are small harbingers of chaos and discord with little regard for their fellow humans, which means they fit right in in the White House EYYYY POLITICAL COMMENTARY.

But Lincoln’s kids, apparently, were especially out of control.

Above: “Alright, enough pussy-footin’ around, Pops, fork over the dough and no one gets a kick in the nuts.”

Lincoln adored his boys, partly because he was a good dad and partly because he’d already had one child die tragically, so understandably, he was like, “Life is short and antibiotics haven’t been invented yet so we’re all going to die from getting paper cuts, probably; I’m just gonna let my boys do whatever the hell they want.”

And he kind of...did.

Willie and Tad Lincoln, his two youngest, brought tons of pets into the White House. Dogs, cats, birds...when people objected, Lincoln just sort of shrugged. He, too, was a huge animal lover and didn’t really care if ponies were clomping around the Oval Office. “My White House, my rules, my indoor ponies.”

The two Lincoln boys would dress up in military uniforms and have fake military drills and stage fake (LOUD) battles all over the White House, including when Dad was in a Cabinet meeting.

What did Dad do, you ask?

Laugh his head off.

While his kids would burst into Cabinet meetings, crawl under the table and kick important Senators’ legs and feet, generally causing a grade-A ruckus, Abe would try and fail to stifle his laughter.

Which, you know. Objectively isn’t the best parenting, but for Pete’s sake, they were at war, can’t they have a little fun? Jesus, lighten up, folks, they’re kids.

The Lincoln boys particularly irritated Sec. of War Edwin Stanton, but to be fair, almost everything irritated Sec. of War Edwin Stanton.

Above: “I have never had fun once, ever, in my life.”

Once again, Lincoln’s rationale was, “Life is fragile, one of my children already died, the country is at war, and kids make me laugh, so if they want to punch Sec. Stanton in the balls under the table, who am I to stop them?”

Also, Lincoln was the president, so nobody thought it was appropriate to go, “Um, hey? Mr.--Mr. President? Maybe you could tell your sons to, you know...not crawl under the table and interrupt, um...important...war strategy meetings?”

ALSO, Lincoln once wrestled a man twice his size to the ground without batting an eyelash, so you go tell him to make his kids behave. I dare you.

[callixton]

I got tagged!! Learn more about me!

Thanks to @dionysus-is-my-dude for tagging me!!!

Nickname: My name is Theo, so I get Theodore, Ted, Teddy (though uh.. to be honest those are partially because I ask people to). My friend Alex calls me Thee and my boyfriend (PJ) calls me T. And a few of my friends call me Moony because I Am Remus Lupin.

Gender: Trans boy. It took me some time to find the right label, but I’m definitely just a straight up ftm guy.

Star Sign: I’m a Pisces, but personally I don’t think it really fits me. PJ and one of my best friends are also both Pisces, and though he fits the stereotype occasionally, I find it to generally be bullshit.

Height: I am... 5 foot. I just want to grow taller than my mom? But I’m probably pretty much how tall I’m ever going to be.

Sexuality: I call myself bisexual, but I’m probably most accurately panromantic bisexual? Because gender has no bearing on my attraction to people in terms of whether or not I’d like to date them, but my sexual attraction is a gendered experience. I still can be sexually attracted to anyone of any gender, but the way I experience that attraction is affected by their gender. It’s kind of like this post, but Jake Edwards explains almost exactly how I feel in his YouTube video here.

Hogwarts House: Slytherin!! I definitely value ambition and cleverness. And hey, Merlin was in our house, how much better could you get? I don’t believe in the whole merged houses (Slytherclaw, Gryffinpuff), but I do always say my secondary house would be Hufflepuff, and I’ve got a lot of mad love for those badgers.

Favourite Animals: UhhHH I don’t know! Elephants, maybe? Dolphins were my favorite for a while. I really love dogs?? All of the above?

Favourite Colour: It changes a lot, but if I to give one I usually say blue. I’ve been really digging a leafy green recently though.

Current Favourite Song: Ooh man... probably Come Home, Cardinal Pell by Tim Minchin. I’ve been listening to a lot of him and Bo Burnham recently. It’s... about a really horrible subject, so I kind of feel like I shouldn’t be listening to it recreationally? But also it is such a Bop.

Favourite Ideas to Get Creative With: This is a strangely worded one, so I’m not entirely sure if the answer I give is the one the author is looking for, but... right now it’s probably those damn UK comedians (wow look a quick self plug, follow my side blog @theft-and-shrubbery) especially as far as editing goes. I’ve also been doing a lot with Harry Potter right now. I’ve started writing a lot more in general over the past couple of months again, which is great, I’ve been working with a lot of original characters.

What I Like to do most when I’m Alone: I really wish I was alone more often so I had a chance to rp (oof another one? so soon? check out @itsthatwerewolf) and start up a YouTube channel and generally film things? I watch a shit ton of stand up and panel shows, and a fair amount of gaming videos on YouTube. Also, it’s always nice to be able to blast music and lip sync without being judged. I love playing video games and writing too!

What do I think of my Friends: I’m really fucking blessed to have an amazing group of friends, both on and offline. They’re wonderful and funny and I love them very very very much. I could write an entire post about each one of them, so I’ll refrain from going on.

Average Hours Spent Sleeping: haha hah ah ha i’m so sorry i have no self control and as a result my sleep schedule is FUCKED. I usually fall asleep sometime after 4 or 5 am, and wake up around noon? So I guess about 7 hours, which isn’t horrible, but it’s been even worse the past couple of days.

Cats or Dogs: DOGS dogs dogs I love every single one to death. I really really love cats too though, I just can’t pet them because I have really bad allergies, so I’ve never been able to connect with them as well and I feel terrible about it. Our family owns both a cat and dog though.

Number of Blankets I Sleep With: I have between two and four depending on the season, but I always have the fan on full blast no matter what temperature it is. I can’t sleep without it.

Dream Job: Actor. I’m genuinely never happier than when I have the opportunity to act and I’m really scared that this is never going to work out for me because it’s what I want to do more than anything and. argh. I’d also really love to be an author or a graphic designer (what I’m probably going to go to college for) or a video game designer.

Dream Trip: I would say London but the truth is I’d like to live their full time, and the same goes for New York so... I’ve always wanted to visit Copanhagen or New Zealand? Though honestly, anywhere I go I’d want it to be with PJ, that would make anywhere wonderful.

When I made this Account: According to my archive, November of 2015 which is... damn a lot longer ago than I thought.

Why I Made This Account: I stalked about a hundred pages of a harry potter blog, and then decided that... yeah it was probably about time I made an account. 

Number of Followers: 274, though for how inactive I’ve been at times, I’m surprised I don’t have less.

And finally, to tag 20 followers!

@pj-is-okay @falling-into-vacancies @ratfuxk @brixagel @paraj4 @decembersun @majestic-platypodes @goingbacktothegoodolddays @mightbeamalfoy @frankenstein-girl @10percentalive @ryanthedemiboy @thefloralcryptid @luke-warm-soup @haphazardlydreaming @noctiilucent @nerdygirlnoodles @steampunkmaster @talonblack @everyone-is-weird-not-just-you