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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 02:04 --

i-nisemono:

fukboi didnt invite us 2 tha got dam party

i-nisemono:

fukboi didnt invite us 2 tha got dam party

(via toot6)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 02:03 --

charlesoberonn:

vintagestuck AU where the Beta guardians play an arcade version and game board version of Sburb in the 1920s and 1980s.

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(via and-its-name-shall-be-weeaboo)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 02:03 --

(Source: haemus, via toot6)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 02:02 --

ask-stupid-boifrens:

THE PEOPLE WHO REALLY MATTER DONT MIND ANYWAY

(via swifty-fox)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 02:01 --

ask-stupid-boifrens:

You’re lying in bed, dazed and immobile, like your consciousness has been temporarily shunted into a warm cadaver splayed on the slab. It’s nothing new. You get the runaround like this every time you lay down now. Once the discomfort of your back and shoulders subsides, then the paralysis sets in, then the ache. It’s never quite the same twice, but similar enough to string events together into a mildly disjointed chain. It’s not overtly terrible sometimes.

Sometimes you’re alone, spread out with your back to a rock, staring up at the ceiling that gapes at you with this infinitely deep and surreal kind of presence that makes it seem like it’s both falling down and receding away from you all at once. When things settle in like this your depth perception is about the first thing to get shot, but you’re bound too fast to your position, too petrified to do anything more than embrace the vertigo. You get used to it, anyway. Your vision kind of lazily corkscrews when you’re not paying attention or concentrating, and you have to pour all your focus into keeping the walls straight, but it’s not awful. Just inconvenient. You’re not aware of much else besides the slow crawl of everything. Your breathing and pulse pour through your body like chilled molasses, but at the very least it is consistent. You are the last to complain.

Sometimes, however, you stare up at the gaping, reeling darkness, and you feel yourself fall apart. It wouldn’t be quite so bad if it happened all at once and was over, but your experience is never so forgiving. You can feel the life go from your body in shards. First the heat drains from your blood, and then the energy from your chest until each beat of your pusher drives a spike of ice between your ribs. It aches through every fragment of your existence, and you can feel your body scrabble desperately to keep itself warm. It overcompensates. You flush until your skin burns and you sweat until you’re clammy and shivery all over. The global feelings aren’t even so bad. What’s worse is when you can feel your body starting to preserve itself by cutting off extraneous functions. Your skin crawls, and your guts twist and there’s sharp, throbbing pains cropping up everywhere between your hip and your clavicle. Then the pains start to go dead and your whole body feels loose and shabby. All the little bits and pieces of you that regenerate cells the fastest halt all further production. It aches in the tips of your fingers, right along the cuticles of your claws, and in your throat, and in your scalp, in the roots of your teeth, and in places you’re too broken to acknowledge. You can feel yourself leaking out through the seams, and it’s still not the worst part.

The worst part isn’t the pain, or the fear, or even the helplessness. The worst part is always the shadows, these kind of blurry figures that slip through your peripheries like phantoms floating across the surface of your eyes. Sometimes the figure is no more than a streak shaped like a person, a memory smudged into the back of your retina. Sometimes it’s a recognizable individual with color and life and this kind of trepidation that they exude in rolling waves. They don’t touch, or if they do, you can’t feel it. All they ever do is bow over you, or worse, skirt your vision, loitering on the edges where you’re not even sure they’re there if they don’t move. It’s terrifying, thinking that recognizable people—blurry, warped patterns of Aradia, and Kanaya, and John—can linger in your space and still be so blind to your condition. Or maybe they aren’t. Maybe they’re just as hurt as you. Just as helpless to stop it. There’s not an ounce of blame your conscious can muster.

Sometimes there’s sound, rippling, echoing in this kind of indecipherable auditory soup, pouring in one ear and sloshing around in your pan a bit before trickling back out the other. Sometimes the voices are your friends, loved ones, whispering like they’re afraid you’ll hear. Even if they spoke up, you could never pull words out of the garbled slush your brain makes of it all. Sometimes the whispers are shouts. Sometimes the shouts are throat-ripping screams. Sometimes the screams echo in your skull until it’s an agonizing pounding against the inside of your forehead. Sometimes the pounding in your skull isn’t screaming at all. Sometimes it’s silence.

All you can do is lay and wait, stagnant and festering, until something changes. Until you wake up.

It’s never like the nightmares you used to have on the meteor. Those were never consistent, and rarely ever anything more than terrifying hallucinations. It’s not even like the twisted, semi-lucid nightmares you had after making landfall in the new universe. Ever since you were reborn a god, your nightmares haven’t been nightmares at all.

They’ve been memories.

(via swifty-fox)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 01:57 --

whiskeydrinking-operating:

This is Chester. When I was in Afghanistan I got a care package from one of those “Adopt a Soldier” programs that lets families send care packages to service men and women who are deployed overseas. Anyway, I got this care package, and it came with the usual stuff: Baby wipes, crackers, peanut butter, the Dad threw in a pack of cigarettes, and there was some jerky. But there was also a little beanie baby gold fish and a hand written note from a 7 year old girl that said  “Dear Soldier, (I wasn’t even mad) I hope you are doing well. I’m sorry you have to miss thanksgiving with your family. This is my friend Chester. He keeps me safe from monsters, but I think you need him more than I do. I hope he keeps you safe from the monsters you’re fighting. Take good care of him for me”.
You bet your ass that little fish was in my pocket every time I went on patrol.

whiskeydrinking-operating:

This is Chester. When I was in Afghanistan I got a care package from one of those “Adopt a Soldier” programs that lets families send care packages to service men and women who are deployed overseas. Anyway, I got this care package, and it came with the usual stuff: Baby wipes, crackers, peanut butter, the Dad threw in a pack of cigarettes, and there was some jerky. But there was also a little beanie baby gold fish and a hand written note from a 7 year old girl that said
“Dear Soldier, (I wasn’t even mad)
I hope you are doing well. I’m sorry you have to miss thanksgiving with your family. This is my friend Chester. He keeps me safe from monsters, but I think you need him more than I do. I hope he keeps you safe from the monsters you’re fighting. Take good care of him for me”.

You bet your ass that little fish was in my pocket every time I went on patrol.

(via swifty-fox)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 01:55 --

nebroska:

nebroska:

does anyone remember the movie where the teenage boy was actually a mermaid or did i hallucinate it

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I WASNT HIGH OFF MY ASS OH MY GOD

(via jakestridrope)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 01:51 --

redbikeprince:

i have never read anything more blatantly written by a man before

redbikeprince:

i have never read anything more blatantly written by a man before

(via swifty-fox)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 01:49 --

sexyseventhgrader:

it’s 2014 why do printers still sound like you’re sacrificing your first born child to the aztec gods

(via toot6)

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-- adiosToreador on August 27th at 01:49 --

that-one-fucking-cabbage:

Lalonde guide to cooking a turkey.
Jfc I’ve never gotten notes like this.

that-one-fucking-cabbage:

Lalonde guide to cooking a turkey.

Jfc I’ve never gotten notes like this.

(via and-its-name-shall-be-weeaboo)