#courtemanche

[haveyouseenthisseries-poll]

[demiurgee]

Portrait of Hadrien, my OC.

[leszackardises]

La vraie nature: Les invités du 15 janvier 2023

La vraie nature: Les invités du 15 janvier 2023

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[misiahasahardname]

i’ve had this long list of td surname headcanons (and i guess some of them are nationality headcanons) for a while and haven’t done much about them, so…

here are each generation’s surnames! (except for rr since i’m not too confident about them)

gen 1:

harold norbert cheever doris mcgrady V

cody emmett jameson anderson

lindsay tyson

noah könig (german)

eva barta (czech)

izzy clark

owen fraser

trent evans-grant

gwen kennedy

heather ryeo

bridgette summers

leshawna simelane (south african iirc)

beth spring

devon ‘dj’ joseph

alejandro burromuerto (spanish)

sierra kauffman (german)

tyler wilson

ezekiel miller

courtney cortez (spanish, or from somewhere where they speak spanish primarily)

duncan butcher

katie wan (malaysian)

sadie peterson (originally was gonna give her a romanian surname but here is peterson)

justin kāne (hawaiian)

geoff jasper

gen 2:

josef ‘jo’ kaczmarek (Polish)

brick macarthur

anne-maria chahuán (chilean)

michele ‘mike’ russo

cameron corduroy wilkins

rudolph ‘lightning’ jackson

staci sterling

zoey gates

dawn oakwood

scott brackin (irish)

dakota milton

sam stevens

beverly ‘b’ jones

gen 3:

ella ito-courtemanche (japanese and french)

scarlett montgomery

max mayhem (yes. i’m actually giving him that as his surname. get sillyed)

jasmine reynolds

shawn tremblay

dave korrapati (indian, more commonly in telugu-speaking areas)

sky sanderson (i was a bit uhm. stuck with this one. i looked up ‘cree surnames’ but found only three. i went for this one but i’m still uncertain.)

amy martin

samantha ‘samey’ martin

topher mccann

rodney rogers

sugar silo

beardo mbomio (equatoguinean)

leonard howe

gen 4:

nichelle ladonna (italian)

bowie davis

emma fletcher

julia hartwell-hughes

priya khan (indian)

millie carter

chase boonmee (thai. it means ‘reliable, generous, loyal’. ironic)

raj ghosh (indian)

wayne watterson

mary-kate ‘mk’ yí (chinese. in honour of fai yí, my beloved)

damien reid

hezekias ‘zee’ guzman (argentinian (it means ‘good man’ which is what he is!!!))

rhinffrew ‘ripper’ bowen (welsh (WELSH RIPPER REAL))

caleb garcia (hispanic)

axel sanchez-guðmundsdóttir (hispanic(?) and icelandic. yes, apparently ‘axel’ is an icelandic name!)

[mythandlaur]

Code: July Day 4 - AU

I don't think this one requires much extra explanation, except for the fact that, in my head, this doesn't actually solve nearly as many problems as one would expect, because fate's cruel and life's complicated and just because someone wants to help doesn't mean they're always good at it.

Also, I'm gonna come back around to the art swap prompt later because I'm going the in universe route and my current idea would require me to research French classic rock.

...

The first time Jim sees it, he very nearly chucks his attendance clipboard clean across the field in shock.

It happens while he's taking roll for the tenth-grade co-ed class, out on the track and field on an unusually warm spring day. He'd just been calling out names, idly letting his gaze run over the students present, when it had frozen him mid-list.

Annie Courtemanche. Day student, wanted to be a gymnast back since sixième but had recently changed her tune to wanting to become a dancer, even pushing for a club which he'd been all for signing off on.

He happens to glance over her when she thinks he isn't paying attention, and catches her staring at the ground with narrowed eyes. Her eyes are normally a very striking light green, so it's even more obvious that something is horribly wrong.

Jim can't see the sign they'd talked about from this distance, but it almost looks like her pupil has shrunk to a pinprick without an iris, the whites of her eyes almost too pure a white, flickering like television static.

"...Courtemanche?" he calls.

She raises her head and her eyes are normal again, just like that--Jim might've written it off as his imagination, but knowing what it actually meant, he couldn't possibly brush it off. It was too...eerie and wrong for him to have made it up, anyway.

"Here," she replies with all of her usual enthusiasm. She even sounds completely normal.

"Right..." Jim tries to ease up his sudden vice-grip on the clipboard. Good grief, it was like he was on the front line. He wonders where Class 4e-A is right now, but he can't recall their schedule off the top of his head. He'll just have to wing it.

It's an hour-long period, mostly devoted to stretches and stamina training. Courtemanche immediately falls over and complains that she'd torn something and had to go to the infirmary, despite being more than accustomed to these warmups.

(Belpois had tried that same trick not long ago, with really awful acting. Given he'd immediately asked Aelita to accompany him, Jim had simply assumed it was a pressing matter and had let him get away with it.

But Jim was on high alert for the students abusing his generosity, and upon seeing Belpois skulking back to his room in the middle of the day without so much as a limp, had confronted him about his "twisted ankle" healing up strangely fast.

It was meant to be mostly a joke, a prompt for him to explain what had actually happened, but Belpois had stared at Jim with a look of absolute confusion. Then, his eyes had widened and his expression turned absolutely stricken--he'd slammed his door in Jim's face without a word.

By the time Jim got back to his room, he'd received a painfully clinical e-mail describing the situation, and he cursed himself because he'd already managed to fail these kids he'd decided he was going to try and protect as best he could.)

"Let me see it," Jim tells Courtemanche, jogging over. "I know a thing or two about this, myself."

Her face twists for half a second, but she dutifully holds out her leg, though jerks it back when he tries to feel her ankle. "Don't touch it! It hurts!"

("Victims seem to be altered down to the molecular level," the e-mail had said. "My theory is that they are, essentially, converted partially intro electomagnetic fields. We know they have very little mass, and apparently their skin does not feel like a human's at all.")

Jim plays stupid. "Looks just fine to me. Hey, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to get out of class before we even got started!"

He chuckles heartily and ignores the other students' strange looks. He heads back to the other side of the field, and sure enough, Courtemanche gets up on her own a few seconds later. He feels her eyes--not her eyes--burning into the back of his head.

She tries the same sort of trick several more times throughout the period with increasing intensity--it's too hot, she feels sick to her stomach, she fell on the track. The real Courtemanche was physically healthy as a horse and refused to let anything stop her from training. It's hard to deflect all of her attempts, and he suspects some of the other students think he's being some kind of heartless tyrant denying help to a sick student. He can't afford to worry about that right now, he just has to keep her here for as long as he possibly can.

Eventually, the bell rings and he calls the period, the kids beginning to disperse. Courtemanche abruptly turns towards the school building.

"Courtemanche!" Jim calls out before he can think. Her shoulders visibly stiffen. He has to come up with the rest of the sentence on his feet. "I, uh, may I speak to you in private, briefly? Don't worry, you're not in trouble."

"But--I promised to meet someone at lunch...!"

Jim waves a hand dismissively. "I won't keep you long. Come on."

The other kids stare and mutter amongst each other, but after a few seconds of gawking, the clarion call of food wins out. The other kids walk away, and then it's just the two of them.

Come on, Jimbo, you've faced scarier than this.

Courtemanche shuffles up to him, rubbing her elbow with the opposite hand. "I don't know what this is about, but I really do need to go."

Now he has to come up with a reason to keep her talking. "Do you?"

"What?"

"Come on, walk with me."

She follows him to the track with very noticeable reluctance, but at least she is still following. Time for him to prove his mettle.

"Now, I understand that passions can come and go over time."

"...Huh?"

"Let me finish. You've been working real hard lately, and I respect that, it's one of those things that makes me think you're really gonna make it out there, you know? But I can't help but notice you seem to be falling off the proverbial horse, uh, so to speak. In athleticism as much as in creative pursuits, burnout is a real concern, especially coming out of the honeymoon phase of a new skill. You learn and train and make progress, and then you hit a wall, and you ask yourself do I really want to do this? You get tired! Browbeaten! But if you keep throwing yourself against that wall forever, you're not gonna break through before you hurt something, you hear?"

"Um..." Courtemanche looks so confused Jim almost wonders if he'd been wrong this whole time. "I think you have the wrong idea..."

("Victims are capable of behaving in a manner very reminiscent of their normal selves. This is because the victim remains intact and aware, albeit in an altered state of consciousness. They can still carry out XANA's instructions without the direct intervention of the spectral agent."

Jim had read those words twice to process them, then glanced towards his door into the boys' hall. Belpois was speaking from experience.)

...His blood starts to boil at the memory. He takes a deep breath. Not now. Don't break now. "Maybe so! But given your behavior today, it is still something I want to bring up. You're..." He scratches his head. "You're a tough kid, Annie. Determined. You're a fighter."

("They cannot be reasoned with or dissuaded, but there is some potential ability to delay themselves with conflicting signals to the nervous system if they attempt to regain control of their body.")

"I don't think you'd let this take you down so easily--burnout, that is. You're smarter than that."

Jim catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns his head just in time to see a blurry blue shape sprinting for the path into the park, a purple one just behind him. Courtemanche had stopped walking for a moment, but he catches her looking in the same direction.

She abruptly checks her watch. "I won't, you're worried over nothing. I have to go."

Courtemanche shoves him slightly in the arm, but it's not enough for him to lose his center of gravity, and when she pivots to walk away, he manages to grab her shoulder.

It feels like putting your hand in front of one of those old CRT televisions, that sort of fuzzy sensation.

"Not so fast!"

It comes out louder and harsher than he'd meant for it to, and he can tell by the way she--it--goes visibly rigid. Its free fist clenches tight at its side.

In one smooth motion, she turns on her heel and faces him.

This time, he sees the sign clearly--along with the hateful, yet somehow empty glare that does not belong on her face.

"...Jim?"

Jim blinks. He's lying on the track, cheek stinging with road burn and nose full of the smell of burnt hair. "Uh...?" He blinks several more times, trying to recall how he'd wound up on the ground. Had he passed out? What time is it?

"Jim, are you all right?"

It's not the same voice that had called his name earlier, and he drags himself into a sitting position, rubbing at his stinging cheek and glancing over to the sources.

It hits him like a ton of bricks.

"S-Striker! Puma!"

Stern and Della Robbia both give each other a look and roll their eyes. None of them seem to have taken to Jim's call signs too well--oh, well, they'd come around eventually, that wasn't important.

Jim scrambles to his feet. "It's--Annie Courtemanche, she--!"

"We know." Stern grimaces and rubs at his shoulder. Jim notices his sleeve is burnt in several places. "Trust me, we know. She cut the elevator cables and Spidermanned down the shaft."

Della Robbia whistles. "Whoof, you got on the wrong side of her too?"

He points in the vague direction of Jim's face, and Jim rubs his stinging cheek. Now that he's more conscious, he's fairly certain it isn't just road burn. "She kept trying to cut out of class," Jim mutters. "I tried to stop her..."

"You really didn't have to," Stern says, brows furrowed.

"No, no, I did!" Jim tries to pull himself up to his usual level of swagger. "For my honor as your protector!"

"...Uh-huh."

"Well, I appreciate it," Della Robbia quips, digging around in his pocket and pulling out his phone. "We still somehow scraped by just in time again. I feel like I've been run over."

"From what Aelita says, you were run over."

"Only a little bit!" Della Robbia raises his phone to his ear, other hand on his hip. "...Hey, Jeremie! Yeah, Jim's fine, he just got a little zippity-zap. We still doing the thing?"

"We wanted to warn you before we went back," Stern explains.

"Eh? Are you sure you want to do that?"

Stern shrugs. "The elevator's totally busted and there's no way we'd be able to fix it ourselves. Besides, Jeremie's probably got a concussion and Yumi fell off one of the rafters."

Jim's fists clench. This kind of thing is what keeps him doing this, despite the personal and legal risks to himself--they talk about getting attacked and almost dying like it's an annoyance, like it's bad food at the cafeteria or a spot of rain. These are teenagers, they should be worrying about girls or sports or test results, not this.

He doesn't know what sort of thing this XANA is, going after children like this, over and over and over. He'd like to give it a piece of his own mind, but that's not something he can actually do himself.

"...Okay, see ya this morning, Einstein," Della Robbia chirps, hanging up the phone. "T-minus one minute, we're going to just before breakfast. At least I'm gonna know to go for the sausage seconds early this time."

"And that means I'll be allowed to eat mine without you giving me horrible ugly puppy dog eyes, right?"

"Hehe, no promises! And they're very handsome puppy dog eyes, thank you very much!"

It absolutely boggles Jim's mind how these two can talk so casually after something like this, and that just makes him angrier. They're used to it. Belpois had said they'd been doing this for no less than a year by the time he'd found out about it, and now things only seem to be getting worse for them. They shouldn't be used to it. It's not fair.

They don't know the depth of the situation they've put him in, really. They don't know what kind of hot water he might be in if he gets found out in all this. But he's willing to do it because who else will, because someone has to know, someone has to keep them from running themselves into the ground.

The world slows to a crawl and then turns white. Jim's stomach briefly attempts to vacate his chest cavity.

Jim's in the cafeteria, just finishing up early breakfast at the faculty table. He doesn't even wait for the disorientation to pass before excusing himself and heading into the courtyard.

(There's no point to it, he knows, everything is fine now. But that doesn't stop him from wanting to check on Annie Courtmanche anyway.)

[alainamama17]

“Propaganda is as powerful as heroin; it surreptitiously dissolves all capacity to think.” ― Gil Courtemanche, A Sunday at the Pool in Kigali

[notmuchtoconceal]

Miss Teen In Absentia (from "Fade In True^2" by JD Courtemanche)

/ /

... the death of feeling: the moment at the terminus of a coil of moments when need at last succumbs to will. When, with the calm of an amphetamine fog, the necessary recourse to the future reveals itself as clean and precise as a surgical excision.

Our clothes near amniotic with the sweat of the hour, the only rational choice would be to never breathe again. To indulge another breath would only prolong the churning of my bowels, the stabbing of my urchin loins.

On the periphery of my vision, the roof is caving in at hard angles, drawing closer to the apex of my skull.

A frame of black metal, bending but not shrieking, it comes in silent, without even a crumpling of paper--only soft and rhythmic contraction. There is an atmosphere inside of her, exerting pressure on the limits of space. With nowhere for the air to go, this unlined casket--as if caught in the pull of an orbiting body-is about to implode. We are going to be crushed together, our manifold fibers vacuum-sealed into the compact substancelessness of a boxed lunch, where all is swallowed up and lost.

This is the sensation of drowning in the air, the nourishment of the smokestack in the erosion of the stomach lining. It is not that the air is growing thinner which makes it a chore to breathe, it is merely that she is consuming my lungs -- her breath and the taste of metal -- and the harder every anvil we inhale, the more exquisite the oxygen deprivation in my brain. This still ether, this poison of her body, seeps into my throat honeysuckled with the heat of her intestines. There is but one word for this sensation, this aerosol high of another body, and the resulting shade of brain death to which we so willingly succumb :--

We’re unthinking that it must be love.

The other token of my affection is bleeding down her wrist. Out of what had been a wilting peony, the smell of the corpse flower will not relent.

An ammoniac of dog fur, a note of overripe pear, there is nothing which will stop the eyes from watering, or the hairs of my nostrils from falling out in timelapse video. In the wet concrete of my bones, the thought occurs that once this shapeless thing might have had a chance to feed; once might have had potential beyond the inevitability of today. This is far less sympathy than we allow those who already exist; who, weighted with the burden of life, have already been promised the reprieve of death. Yet, for what they lack, this melting bouquet, this rejected synthesis, has implicit in its brief non-existence the ambiguity of being me.

This watercolor on her palm could never maintain the weight of form. In bloom, though it begun to wither; the last in a line, though its dead still thrive below. Through the light caught between tendrils of her fingers, a string of pearls dissolves into the chambers of a brood comb in gashes of the seat cushion. Poor thing, we can almost spare the breath to say.

You will not be missed.

Reaching for her cigarettes, the pack has vanished from the interior of my pocket, and beneath these nails we feel the residue of what remains in shreds adhered to the lining. For a moment, the heart pumps crude and rust. One of us must have left the lighter on the bedside table last night when reaching for the phone. A book of matches, there must have been a book of matches beneath the floor mat. It’s almost enough to make me want to turn to her, to press my cheek to the back of her hand, how are we going to make it through today? Only then does she manage to regain awareness of herself. Awakening from a cherry grove in floral print, the silkscreened land of makebelieve, moving without moving, the vibratory quality of semi-motion so characteristic of her lithe grace, breaks down for but a fleeting moment into a spasmodic twitch.

That is when eyes lock with the tips of her nails into a tunnel of receding mirrors. When the chance motion of light across her nail varnish sees the cigarette burns, moundbuilt beneath the shadow of the collarbone, rise in lines of braille over the surface of my eye. Such high gloss, such crystal clarity, how could mere nails be the pool into which Narcissus stared, or has she revealed the whites of my eyes to be the polished shield of Perseus, in which the Gorgon beholds herself?

She does not see them, does not whisper sweet nothings to them as they lie so vulnerable in the acidity of the sun.

She is absorbed wholly in the moons of her own nails, repelled as if by magnetism from the openings of her pores, seeing in these eyes only the bony joints of that flat plane we call her face. This fraction of a glance is for her to recognize, with a casualness bordering on contempt, that she is merely an idol, earthbound in ligament and bone.

The mouth is tempted to ask aloud, to implore the empathy of the steering wheel, could this braille convex upon my eye be anything more than a Rorschach in scar tissue?

A question to ponder until the flies come, when the hours accordion into days: when the maggots starve on the offal too tanned to feed them, broil in the hollow too hot to house them.

The collar of this shirt has plastered itself to the tendons of my neck and starched itself with brine in the many hours we have sat here, waiting for tenderness to culture out from metabolic heat.

Once membranous with sweat, it could have been the catalyst to reawaken the nerves from catatonia, should the thought have only condescended to cross her mind.

She could have traced archipelagos through the dew of the cotton and read aloud what she hath writ, saw how they glisten in cellular striptease, some plasticized to the sheen of a faded scar, others scabbed to honeycombs of lilac and goldenrod, others still so fresh as to blockade the salivating of the blood vessels within the peaked lips of lunar craters.

Whores have asked for less. Dogs have asked for less.

With my dignity, the mouth has asked only for the hedonic treadmill to remain on warm-up. Obligation, sweet half-sister of regret, she is almost tempted to fumble with the collar, to assert some semblance of order over chaos, for inert atop my thoracic cavity, an accruement of the superior ridge upturns the clavicle into a bony crest.

Should the trunk continue to wear that in this fashion, it is inevitable that we will be mistaken for a date rapist or tennis player.

Do not mistake me for a bitter man, merely see my bitterness as complimentary to her own. This she considers proper dress for a boy my age. Boys my age, this silent nod and deferring smile agree, are a sweet malt of the moronic and the banal. Pout, hipsway, cocksucker grin.

This is but a gradeschool play.

Even with the meager material, this performance will win me acclaim. To take on the impossible wearing only garter belt and feigned disinterest. With this hand she has put a corpse to stud.

A blur within the edges of sight, she reaches to stroke the contours of my jaw. This is but a lead-in to take the chin in hand; to scrutinize the epidermal layer with the talons of a harpy painted in pastels.

These nails, approaching fractions of an inch from the surface of my eye, magnify the burns reflected on their lacquer to deformity. With my vision on the verge of parting (the eyes by this point, incapable of carrying their own weight), distant and in miniature, a second set stares back through the webbing of her thumb and forefinger. Withering and distending in ripples of the oxygen fumes, they sit in a bloom of desaturated neon, between fissures in the sideview mirror, the circle of the frame black and viscid as a clockface pressed from tar, soaking through veins in the dry drops and grime the white heat of imminent noon.

A pressure is building within my inner eye.

Should the time come for the eyes to disrupt this stare -- to rescind the assurance that we shall belong together for as long as this sun shall burn -- the collar of my shirt will fracture into splinters of bone already half dust, and clothe the notches of my pectoral in ash.

Only play acting at contact with my skin, she examines the smoothness of my cheek and the hardness of the bone beneath. Grease and stubble, the beginnings of a sunburn, scars and cystic blemishes where there ought to be nothing but the smooth, the pale and cold. My queen without a castle, window-shopping for decor which will not pose atop a plinth.

She looks through me, eaten alive by the pendulous girth and venomous pinks of a carnivorous sunhat.

‘Where is my spring water, beloved?

Why did you not carry with you an oasis in the palm of your hand?’

She will not touch the fountains whose concrete mars the ends of our fingertips with grain, risk the rust of boiling metal for a chance of steam. Yet she allows the slime trail of her moisturizer to mingle with the oils of the car, breaths the exhaust stale and corrosive within the blackened metal. It is happening too fast. The window -- unrolled to allow the elbow to soak up the oppression of the sun -- is allowing the air outside.

Our atmosphere has depleted itself, our symbiosis has ceased, and life can once again thrive inside this depleted greenhouse. Insect life, fungal and bacterial life. Endlessly propagating, unburdened by the passions which distorts the fundamental need for survival into a series of ritual gestures. The microbial equivalent of a spring song.

It brings oil to the eye. She too is at last looking upon the burns. Not in the mirror, not within her own nails, but through the translucency of my collar, the collar which we can now see is not bone, but panes of folded paper in crude imitation not only of china, but the cloth.

To look upon them and remain without revulsion -- the way her gaze can linger without pity, but with the sincerity of the careless who permit to meager inconvenience the tears of deepest sorrow -- it is almost enough to convince myself that love is something more than a chance compatibility of pheromones, a mere biological accident.

How this mock stigmata can still recall the glacial domes of her inner eye, the avalanche of black ice cascading from her ruptured stroma. She could stare into a solar eclipse and politely refuse destruction of the retina.

‘The blind cannot appreciate the tawdry effort of color fabrics attempting to hide the grey of mauseoleum walls. Allow me the simple pleasure of my rods and cones, won’t you, dear sun? Thank you. Of all heavenly bodies, it is you which occupies the dearest place in my heart.’

She is descending from my chin and into the cleft of my chest.

The hand reaches to meet her there, to gently caress the soft trenches of her palm, but as the tallest finger brushes the surface of her thumb, the dwarf fingernail finds itself drawn back to the burns.

Crawling across the melted vinyl, dredging a lakebed of cigarette butts, the place where proteins decompose, it has begun to fancy itself a dowsing wand. From this probing nailbed, gouging flesh gnarled to garlands of rotted wood, it shall draw forth the first waters this land has seen since the vagary of spring. She has turned away, to stare out the windshield, through squares of tinting cut away.

There are chasms in the adipose sky and burning celluloid through my feet. The seized brake is a skillet beneath the front quarter of my arch.

It occurs to me that it would be healthy for the eye to blink soon.

That she is unreceptive to the stare which these eyes have begun to bore into the back of the soft gauze we call her skull, but for whatever reason, refuses to oblige. Perhaps the sizzle of the vitreous humor fractions of an inch below has become meditative. The pressure building behind the lens a sort of calm which gives the trite reassurance that there is no remorse before death. It will happen with our eternity together. The shriveled tear ducts will seed granules of salt into the milk concentrate which remains of the surface of the sclera. If the creases of my eyelid do not fold, and things remain as they are uninterrupted, my sight will degrade into fractals beneath a layer of sediment. My body will sit overlooking this concrete penninsula until the day comes when the bloated spindles of a cidaroid emerge from the limestone test of my fused sockets to crawl toward the advancing blight. The day when, metal long stripped away, bare cheekbones eaten by the sun will nourish salt blossoms in the fertile soil of what had once been my tongue and teeth.

The temptation is strong to reach out for her, to caress the fine hairs of her flank and ask, in the most gentle contortion of the tongue imaginable, why it is that she has become such an intolerable little cunt.

The hand will beg me to refrain from such language, and ignore until absolutely necessary the acts my arms will force it to perpetrate in that sounds which bare correspondence to me. The mouth must spell out for the hand in the most minute detail, as the mouth is quite willing and able.

Strangulation. Asphyxiation. Bruises on the neck.

Only then will it finally surpass the initial shock of a rude word, oh.

It will say to me, is it not cruelty to slip into reverie in these increasingly frequent moments, when heat flushes the cheeks, when the long dormant heart is once again aflutter, to imagine my rising up to wrap around her frail neck (the tiny lines between her breast and face) and hold long enough for the vein on the back of the palm to swell above the skin, for the hairs at the base of each finger to stand, feline and aroused?

It is a stupid question, dear hand, that ought to go without saying. What occurs unannounced in one’s head, or in the privacy of a trusted confidant, does not belong to the domain of tepid moralizing.

To confess is to pull the pin from a grenade and reflect upon the inevitable outside the confines of the probable, and safely place it back before the mechanism can trigger. A truth not fit for children, perhaps, say the peddlers of that bready porridge called social cohesion, but the long co-habiting have taught me that rehearsed violence, unacted upon, is the only bond which can cement a stable and loving partnership.

To think, after all it has done for me, it can be as easy scandalized as a damn burb mother.

[ ]

[trinitydigest]

Courtemanche & Associates Announces Expanded Services with SAYAS Alliance’s Acquisition of Medical Resource Network

http://dlvr.it/T5sjfx

[columbianewsupdates]

Courtemanche & Associates Announces Expanded Services with SAYAS Alliance’s Acquisition of Medical Resource Network

http://dlvr.it/T5sc7g

[intellectures]

Jenseits aller Unschuld

Wie viel Verantwortung trägt der Einzelne, wenn alle Menschlichkeit verloren geht? Der Schweizer Dramatiker Lukas Bärfuss rechnete in seinem Romandebüt »Hundert Tage« mit der Schweizer Entwicklungshilfe ab und hielt dem selbstgerechten Westen den Spiegel seines Versagens vor. Im Gegensatz zu Gil Courtemanches Ereignisroman »Ein Sonntag am Pool in Kigali«  ist Bärfuss Roman ein Tatsachenbericht, der das postkoloniale Gebären des Westens demaskiert. Read the full article

[crimechannels]

By • Olalekan Fagbade   MLS: Messi facing punishment after Inter Miami’s 2-0 win over New York Bulls   Inter Miami superstar, Lionel Messi, may face punishment following his MLS debut for the club. Messi scored the second goal as they beat New York Bulls 2-0 on Saturday night. But the World Cup winner did not speak with reporters after that game. The 36-year-old could now find himself in hot water as a result, with MLS rules dictating that players have to be made available for interview at the end of games. The division’s executive vice president of communications, Dan Courtemanche, had confirmed as much prior to a ball being kicked in New York. But Miami spokeswoman Molly Dreska revealed after the game that Messi would not be facing the press, which leaves him in violation of MLS regulations #InterMiami #Messi #MLS

[limeade-l3sbian]

💜💜💜

Last Song: Do You Recall by Dori Freeman

Currently Watching: Nothing, honestly. Just a lot of Youtube lol Currently Reading: A Good Death by Gil Courtemanche Current Obsession: Perfectly curating my Pinterest boards

Tag Attack: @germananon @normallesbian @kiefbowl @menalez @mushroom-home99

Thanks for tagging me @treebeardnerd I love doing these things

Last Song: Epilogue Part 2 from War of the Worlds by Jeff Wayne. I had a long bus journey so I listened to the whole thing

Currently Watching: I'm watching Jack and the Cuckoo Clock Heart on a very dodgy website that gives an error message every ten minutes and I have to reload so it's been taking me weeks to watch a two hour movie.

Currently Reading: Jane Eyre and collected poems by Carol Ann Duffy. The poems are amazing, not a single one that hasn't been incredible

Current Obsession: Shaperaverse, Asteroid City and Wes Anderson in general, playing rugby

Tagging: (nine people) @sojourners-melancholy @easternpricklypear @project-catgirlpillar @haemosexuality @scramratz @mack-anthology-of-noise @underwhelming-universe @mrdyketator @antiyourwokehomophobia2 no pressure to do this at all

[schn33wi11ch3n]

dieses video wurde nicht nur auf youtube komplett verbannt, man kann es nicht mal mehr da hochladen, aber wenigstens hier!

mein lieblingsauftritt von dem guten alten mirco der leider nicht mehr unter uns ist, r.i.p

feat. michel courtemanche

[scanman73]

29 days till the Victoria Day Speedfest (📷Pic taken at the 2012 race at CTMP) #victoriadayspeedfest #vds2012 #ctmp #ctmplife #racing #racecar #nascar #nascarpintysseries #nps #pintysseries #mosport #dodge #mopar #dodge #29 #rayCourtemanchejr #courtemanche https://www.instagram.com/scanman73/p/BwbwIOYBQu6/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1u8i8xo5v1ruq

[oeag-gif]

Captain Canada - Padutu !

Et Doug se fige.

[lukasadss]

Concept: lesbian noble lady sword fights her suitors, she has to marry the one that wins against her, she never lost.

Her name’s Gabrielle Colette Courtemanche ; ). Not gonna lie making a Night at the Museum oc was a bit of an impulse but it’s fun and no one can stop me

I told my friend, @littlepuffy4ever, that I wanted to make a natm oc cuz I saw a picture of a lady in a 17th century dress and that Gabrielle could have been an LGBT history icon when she was alive and, I kid you not, my friend immediately went ‘SHE COULD BE AMELIA’S GF’ so have also these ladies waltzing and swing dancing