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Hi, I'm Michael/SIaanme. I'm a New Zealander, and this is my multifandom and whatever-I-want blog. Occasionally I make rambly text posts. My 3DS Friend-code is 2750-1225-5911, you should add me! Thank you for reading, we hope to see you again!
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johnegbort:

uʍop ǝpısdn pǝuɹnʇ pǝddıןɟ ʇoƃ ǝɟıן ʎɯ ʍoɥ ʇnoqɐ ןןɐ ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ sı sıɥʇ ʍou

1 hour ago on April 16th, 2014 | J | 325,776 notes
zeldamnonanza:

Majora by angegreenart

zeldamnonanza:

Majora by angegreenart

7 hours ago on April 16th, 2014 | J | 1,165 notes
13 hours ago on April 16th, 2014 | J | 4,590 notes

marshmallow-the-vampire-slayer:

Buffy, the Quotable Slayer

Her abuse of the English language is such that I understand only every other sentence.

1 day ago on April 15th, 2014 | J | 6,717 notes

voxlunch:

lissycposts:

Andy Goldsworthy’s art

AUTO REBLOG

1 day ago on April 15th, 2014 | J | 155,910 notes
waffleguppies:

dreamofserenity626:

jellydraws:

Just gonna leave this here! A not quite gryphon!
EDIT
decided to call it a Hummouse.
heh

Its a mouse hummingbird gryphon!
ITS A MOUSE HUMMINGBIRD GRYPHON!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

its fucking adorable is what it is

waffleguppies:

dreamofserenity626:

jellydraws:

Just gonna leave this here! A not quite gryphon!

EDIT

decided to call it a Hummouse.

heh

Its a mouse hummingbird gryphon!

ITS A MOUSE HUMMINGBIRD GRYPHON!!!!!! <3 <3 <3

its fucking adorable is what it is

1 day ago on April 15th, 2014 | J | 7,268 notes

The Cowbird’s Guide to Practical Brood Parasitism

koryos:

Birds.

I don’t know how else to preface this article. Birds, man.

So I’m willing to bet that a lot of you are aware of brood parasitism à la the cuckoo, and a good number of my followers have probably even heard of the terrifying methods the intraspecific brood parasitic coot uses to weed out the fakers from its progeny.

But have you heard much about this lady?

image

Looks kind of drab and unassuming, doesn’t she.

(She murders your children if you don’t do what she wants.)

So let’s talk about brood parasitism and why it’s good and why it’s not so good and the different strategies that different bird species use, including mafia behavior. And we’ll talk about the development of male cowbird courtship too because that’s kind of cool. But yeah, lots of bird child murdering behind the cut just so you’re aware.

Read More

1 day ago on April 15th, 2014 | J | 233 notes
{x}
2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 23,796 notes

autoharleys:

lovelynobody00:

how to make your otp more awesome: pacific rim crossover

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 9,934 notes
bluekomadori:

It would be really awesome if Greninja’s surf took shape of other pokemon

bluekomadori:

It would be really awesome if Greninja’s surf took shape of other pokemon

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 13,708 notes
shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]
this made me wonder what happens to like
the players who go godtier in a dead session
because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever
until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie
and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever
and eventually
inevitably
the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring
because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken
and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore
just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.
Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.
Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.
You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.
You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 
You cannot speak.
You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.
You cannot see.
You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 
You cannot hear. 
You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 
You do not exist.
You are one of many.
You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.
Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.
There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

shadowofthelamp:

bec-blanche:

shadowofthelamp:

terminalcountdown:

hellzabeth:

pimpeta-slap:

psuliem:

mpregbert:

nagekis:

binart:

DID YOU KNOW THAT MOST SBURB SESSIONS FAIL

ok [LONG POST; APOLOGIES FOR PUTTING THIS ON YOUR LOVELY ART]

this made me wonder what happens to like

the players who go godtier in a dead session

because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever

until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie

and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever

and eventually

inevitably

the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring

because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken

and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore

just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying

NOTE TEAM MISFAIL: WE ARE ALL TO GO GODTIER AND KEEP EACH OTHER SANE OK? OK.

NOTE TAKEN CAPTAIN’

Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.

Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.

Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.

You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.

You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 

You cannot speak.

You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.

You cannot see.

You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 

You cannot hear. 

You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 

You do not exist.

You are one of many.

You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.

Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.

There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 53,771 notes
Tagged as: #Homestuck 

ikimaru:

"And one day we will find a way
towards this distant golden age
THE CRIES OF WAR WILL SOUND THE DAY
WE STAND BEFORE THE DAWN OF A NEW WORLD!

I jUSt.. really wanted put as much of the story in one picture as I could

we’ve come so far guys! ;v;

full version! tumblr resizing strikes again

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 28,160 notes
Tagged as: #Homestuck 
greathorn-42:

Erisolsprite and Jake English

greathorn-42:

Erisolsprite and Jake English

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 2,076 notes
Tagged as: #Homestuck 
2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 20,197 notes
Tagged as: #Cap 2 

out-there-on-the-maroon:

prokopetz:

stephenleasheppard:

prokopetz:

Man, don’t do the thing where you claim that movie A is “unoriginal” because you can make it sound exactly like movie B with a carefully worded synopsis. With sufficiently perverse phrasing, I can make The Silence of the Lambs sound like Care Bears: A New Generation.

Well? I’m waiting.

"An ambitious young woman, desiring to overcome the skepticism of her peers and excel in her chosen field, seeks out the assistance of a man with a monstrous reputation. He demands quid pro quo in return for his help; though put off by his unsettling demeanour, she agrees. Her initial victories are short-lived, however, when it transpires that her new mentor is simply manipulating her in order to pursue revenge against an older authority figure who’s been watching over her. In the end, all possible allies having been taken out of the picture by a wild goose chase orchestrated by her ostensible benefactor, our heroine must confront a terrifying enemy in an underground lair where he imprisons the innocent for his own twisted amusement."

How’s that?

0.0

2 days ago on April 14th, 2014 | J | 3,046 notes