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doublefine:

Happy New Year from Double Fine! Sorry I haven’t posted for a while, but that’s because we’ve been super busy. We are proud to present the first act of Tim’s long-awaited adventure game, Broken Age! Backers can play it right now. Crazy, I know!

Travel with Shay (Elijah Wood) and Vella (Masasa Moyo) through fantastically gorgeous, hand-painted environments and meet charming and unforgettable characters, voiced by an all-star cast including Jack Black, Wil Wheaton, Jennifer Hale and Pendleton Ward. It’s Tim’s first adventure game in 16 years, and I promise you won’t be disappointed. Watch Vella’s trailer here and Shay’s here!

If you didn’t back the game, don’t worry, Act 1 will be released to the public for PC, Mac and Linux on January 28th. You can pre-order Broken Age on Steam now, and all owners of Act 1 will get the rest of the game as a free update when it releases later this year!

And lastly, a special chance for Tumblr: If we can hit 1000 reblogs, I will post some Tumblr-exclusive Broken Age concept art on Thursday. :) So, spread the word!

Story Time

I want you to listen real closely. I want the words I’m about to say to stick to the inside of your brain the same way jelly sticks to counter tops. I want each syllable to lick the nooks and valleys of your ear, I’m serious, pay close attention.

Picture a wooden walkway, the wood is new and treated well. Off in the distance a teenage boy paints the wood with varnish to prevent sun damage. You wonder why he’s missing school, but the thought fades away as the heat of the air begins to force sweat out from your pores. It In the distance you can hear motorboats and the faint sound of children’s laughter. A family probably, one wife who isn’t incredible looking, one dad who works hard and wanted to get away for a little while. The island is perfect for the kids, after being completely isolated from the natural course of evolution for the last 6 years by whatever spa company decided to snatch up the land there are only mosquitoes and an occasional finch. There are numerous activities for the young ones to enjoy, you think volleyball, you think coloring, you think hikes. In the mean time you can get in some spa time, and when the counselors all decide that it’s a good idea to have a campfire and slumber party, you might even get some alone time with your significant other. The idea sits in your head as it sits in theirs, but you aren’t here for a family getaway, you aren’t there because you wanted to get away.

Contrary actually, you love work, the idea of crunching those numbers, or getting that paper published make you excited, but the boss wanted you to get away. The smell of your unshowered musk rotting away in an office chair from IKEA made him a bit concerned about your health. Your numbers are good anyway, you might as well get a vacation. All expenses paid. The lady who works across from you, Nora, cringes as she hears the boss relay your name as the receiver of the vacation package. Her hands clinch and unclinch as she mouths the word “fucker” to the mail clerk next to her. You can’t recall what they’re wearing, but you remember the boss’ tie for some reason. Contrasted awfully, a red tapering tie they make fun of in younger circles. It doesn’t accentuate the length of his body, just the opposite, it makes him look wide, damaged somehow. His shirt is a olive green. Beneath his arms sit deep pools of darkness growing out of the sweat infused rolls beneath his large arms. The shirt choice is poor, his tie choice is poor, his vacation “winner” was probably also not a wise choice. You take a step forward off the boat, realizing that you’re the only one who hasn’t moved onto the sandy shores.

It’s another sunny day on the island, this makes day two of prolonged day time heat. Not once has a cloud dared to show its blasphemous face around the skyline, it’s odd, there hasn’t been a boat nearby either. A quick pace around the room, wallet, keys, glasses. A stack of empty bottles are forming on the wooden floor, the bamboo curves making it impossible for the bottles to remain upright. The bed is in its contradictory state with the sheets askew, something is bothersome about this notion, something about this being the only thing that really belongs to you. The feeling is discarded by the arrival of the tour guide. Pearly white teeth and the most cliche safari hat you’ve ever seen. His breath smells like mint, and his hands are the same kind of polished roughness you see Union Leaders boast about. His ears are curved to match the curve of his hairline,his lips are only slightly crooked. His eyes are brown, and being the most ordinarily ornate elements of facial extravagance are exceptional for being the only unremarkable aspect of his face. While being unsure, you still make the conscious decision to assume he’s hairless everywhere else. He extend his hand with huge smile on his face the same way he did every other day, his arm perfectly parallel to the floor, his hand slightly limp until contact when he would seamlessly bring his eyes to meet yours and reassure you with a firm handshake. Even when you refuse to make eye contact his eyes still glimpse to where your eyes would be perfectly, You wonder if he’s happy, but the idea quickly drains away as he leads you out to breakfast at the Cobana De Banana.

Boasting over 40 different types of margarita, each with a virgin counterpart for the kids, the Cobana De Banana is one of the few restaurants on the island that allows a “quick and enriching” dining experience that would allow a faster entrance into the daily activities. The thought of embarking on whatever stress relieving ardor they assigned to you today makes the already prolific sweat glands work against what should be considered natural. 30 steps from the room and the prized Hawaiian shirt they bestowed on you is already several shades darker than usual in particular trouble spots. To alleviate the heat the waiter brings you a colorful fruit salad, each tinge of color contrasting with the white of the plate, with the white of your hands, with the silver of the fork. The Birds of Paradise in your front yard come to mind, but the thought slides away as the counselor leads you into the forest for another hike to self discovery. 

The sun has relented by 3 or so, the skyline burns orange and the temperature drops to a reasonable 73 degrees. Your sweat drenched body feels the chill of night time coming on reacts with a delighted shudder. At this point you feel the effects of hunger setting in as you walk down the last part of the trail. The guide usually verbose in his descriptions of native flora and fauna is eerily silent as he makes his way over the decimated path made by walking over the exact spot countless times.To this point there have been a number of natural wonders that you have witnessed. A waterfall with a flock of circling birds flying in and out of the cascade to clean themselves. The water is a clear blue and could have been cut crystal used to make the colored filters for theater lights. The water appears as cool feels.Inside you can see a collection of colorful fish, and in one display of beautiful symmetry and dark fish swims around a white fish, both trying to catch each other. The guide pointed out a massive tree, moss growing ornate mosque like mosaics on a dark earthy bark, Bugs crawl only in location that make the tree look natural, birds hop from stem to branch feasting on the abundance of natural life. Each consumed bugs seems to sing about its purpose being fulfilled. The though slides into your head before drifting away your counselor seems oddly perturbed at your attitude towards the tree, but this thought also slides away. You arrive at the restaurant, the sticky air has left to be replaced with the cool ocean breeze that confirms the existence of the flesh and refreshes the mind. You feel oddly invigorated. Maybe the vacation wasn’t such a bad idea.

The waiter brings you a manila colored menu. The prices and the food items are in a tasteful font that isn’t immediately recognizable. The restaurant has a large number of tables, but you seem to be the only one sitting to eat. To the right there is a window showing the sun setting gently allowing the night to take refuge on the tropical peace of the island. To the left there is a stage where jazz music is being played by a few musicians dressed in the same Hawaiian shirt you received upon arrival. Everything on the menu costs the same amount of money, but this eccentricity eludes you as the thought of eating overwhelms most basic principles of cogency. You order some type of meat, the meal is exquisite, though the details seem oddly distant. The thought of this slides away though as the waiter leads you out of the empty room and back to your room. Exhausted you lay down. The bed elevates your body on a form fitting cushion. No springs creak as the padding effortlessly conforms to the shape and structure of your frame. The bedding feels heavy as if to hug you and the thoughts of sleep quickly set in. You wonder briefly about the heat and the number of sheets you have, but the idea quickly slides away as you feel the counselor push his hand against your eyes willing them to sleep.

A soft wailing sound, the sound of crying, the crooked shaking noises of clothes being jerked around. These are the thoughts that wake you up, you think you remember the counselor being in the room, but you discard the idea as being paranoid. Your bladder is on the fritz, it’s 4 AM and you decide to find a bathroom to purge the alcohol from the quickly faltering willpowered bladder currently separating your clean pair of pajamas from what must’ve been a liter of red wine. That’s when the thought really catches, the clothes you wore yesterday are gone, the pants nowhere to be seen, the shirt replaced with a tshirt that bears the words “Greatest Vacation Destination in the Blue.” The shirt is horrible tacky, nobody in their right mind would bring such a thing. Worry begins to grip your stomach. Unease works it’s way into the curves of your grey matter, and the walls seem oddly grotesque, almost overly polished. Upon closer inspection you can see your reflection in the wood, and behind you just faintly you see the counselor, his face smiling, his skull apparent with the stretched skin of his face. You turn around, but he’s gone. Upon gripping the handle to leave the room, you immediately realize that you’ve been locked in. The two windows that used to exist have been replaced with one single large window. The thought strikes you as odd, yet somehow not all that peculiar. This notion causes your skin from ridges as if the cold had penetrated the room. You attempt to open the window, and as you pull the shades you see a bright red light coming from the direction of the harbor. Against the moonlight smoke rises masking the frame of the actual moon giving it the ghostly appearance of a girl in mourning. You force the window open after some difficulty and run to help sure that someone must also be aware of the events.

Cold air, must be 50 degrees, suddenly pajama bottoms and a tshirt are insufficient wear. The fire grows larger as you approach it, the boat is not completely engulfed on one end of the ship a lady stands being pushed back by the fires. On the docks you see a young person on all fours. As he comes more into view his hair becomes more defined, curly, the same boy you saw when you got on the island, still scrubbing the same spot. His hands are coated in a thick layer of dead skin, his neck is sunburned to the point that prickles of red poke their way out. He looks up at you, his eyes full of mania and depraved commitment. You can see maggots poking out from under his shirt. He smile showing missing, rotting teeth, “please save her, you have to save her. I can’t stop scrubbing until I get this one spot out, if I stop, if I even tell you about what happens when I stop he’ll come. I don’t want him to come. please make him not talk to me again I’ll scrub I’ll clean until the boards are whitepleasejustmakehimstayaway.” His voice becomes soft and rambly as he talks. From above there are screams the girl at the edge of the boat is forced to choose between the ocean and the flames. With one final scream she jumps. A splash then silence

The pounding of bare feet on wood, the rush to remove any extra clothing, the cold of the night. These are all things that you feel, as you rush to dive into the water. The cold hits like a sack of meat on a wooden table. Any sense of sleepiness is pushed away the girl, is wearing a black dress that tapers red with olive green highlights. Even from here you notice what a lovely dress it is. She sees you swimming towards her and yells. You don’t understand what she’s saying, but she points off behind you, her eyes bulge against the water pressure becoming more enlarged as you get closer. You reach your hand to grab her, to stop her sinking frame, to save her from descent. You reach out and another hand comes from behind you pushing her down, you turn around and see nothing. When you look back for the girl you see her eyes of popped from her skull, her mouth is fizzing as the water causes her avioli to burst inside of her lungs. Her skin is milky white against a blue backdrop a white fish being encircled by a larger black one, oddly out of balance. You swim back to the surface. and step on the sand.

You attempt to move the kid, but he insists on continuing to scrub. He moans and kicks as your hands enclose on his  arm, as you pull a sickly crunching sound comes from his arm followed by screams. He tries to push the brush against the wood but that forces the bone through his skin. He whimpers and yells to the heavens. Screams come from the woods causing you to turn quickly just in time to miss the sight that accompanied the splash. The boy finally moved, his blood covering the wood paneling in exactly the same spot he tried to clean. More yells from the woods, this time a shrillness that causes birds to fly away.

The woods are sickly and overgrown. The dark conceals numerous eyes that look in attempting to catch what type of meat invades their forest. The paths that were so well marked are overgrown with various plants, each thorned and poorly groomed causing the style of rampant growth that is often associated with abandoned buildings. In dry clothes the cold has started to take its toll, you’ve begun to cough up small amounts of blood and the foliage has clawed through your wet clothes. Still you press on approaching the screams. You come to the waterfall, a baby cries in the backdrop of the rushing water while a girl screams for someone to give him back. The rustling bushes and some stifled screams. A black frame falls against the moonlight’s reflection in the clear water. Skin torn from the front of her face reveals a cracked skull oozing blood. She gurgles on the weight of her tongue and the water forcing its way into her mouth. She chokes on tears and the taste of her own blood as the pure body of water fills with glow of diffused blood, like adding food coloring to a glass of water. She struggles to mouth out words her eyes wandering, but never breaking contact with you. There are small cuts the run the length of her naked body, a hand jerks against the floor of the pool. You rush in to grab her, to drag her from the water, to save her. you vastly underestimate her weight and drop her causing blood to shoot from her mouth. Her jaw hangs slack, to one side the flesh torn on half of her face revealing the bones of the jaw. Despite that you can see her trying with every bit of effort to mouth something. “What, what are you trying to say!” One of her eyes rolls back making her look like a mannequin that was chewed up by a small dog, “b..b…b..babs…babsie,” she sputters as her other eye rolls back and the twitching of her frame stops. It’s quiet except for the sound of the water. A quick few steps, then a plop. A pale white doll floats in the water, a doll with rolled eyes and cold spongy skin. Vomit crawls its way to your mouth as you notice the baby’s face has been cut to resemble a smile.

You rush to leave the forest, to get back to your room to leave. To get away. Along the way you come to the tree. What was once a serene location filled with the natural imposed order of evolution is a sickly scene of rope. Men. From the branches hung at least ten men each of them in their late twenties to their early thirties. Each with a look of horror, some bodies touching some far spaced. Each rope was done differently, the ropes were all different lengths and colors. Some larger birds began eating the squishier bits of each victim. The cold has eaten away at your caring, frost has begun to form on your extremities and you taste ice in your mouth. Your eyelids are frosted with the kiss of winter, your breath burns your insides as they surrender to the frost. With pity and fear you press forward.

The restaurant sits bathing in the flickering pink lights of the Cobana De Banana. In the distance you see someone face down in a pool of their own blood, drink still in hand. Snow now covers the ground, with a clear trail heading to where you are standing. Using what’s left of your strength you head into the restaurant. The jazz ensemble play New Orleans funeral music. They look aged, their hands skeletal, their eyes droopy and tired. Each not seems dragged out and there eating a plate covered in some mystery meat is the counselor, His face a bastardized version of the welcoming appearance it once had.

He forked down a piece of uncooked meat and calls you over to sit down. You attempt to stand, the frost covered joints resist the movement causing you to falter with each almost step. The counselor urges you to hurry before impatiently picking you up and sitting you down. “My your slow this time, and I’m incredibly impatient,” he says stomping on your ankle so hard the bones break. You attempt to make a notifying symbol of agony, but the dry of your throat stifles your screams. The counselor sits back down and tells you to sit up. He clears his throat, “You’re a fucking lucky pig, all of those people got what was just, but you, you’re special…” he takes a big bite of what looks more and more like intestines. ” I can’t kill you, unless you make a certain addendum to the contract we have, not that I want you to do it, it’s just that I’m tired y’know. Break a girl’s skull open once, you might as well have done it a thousand times, stops being fun, but you, I have a special fucking plan for you when you cave, and believe me you will. Your confused, but try not to let him know by remaining neutral, stoic. He takes another bite, “I keep forgetting that you don’t remember the rules, you don’t get to remember, you have to make this choice every time. So let me explain this as clearly as I can.” He stands up. “You can extend your pathetic life by 3 days, don’t ask me why, I don’t know, and all you  have to do is ask me, then time goes back and all of those lovely people who wanted to go on vacation get to die again, and I’ll kill them. I’m not allowed to tell you how long it has been, but I assure you, that I’ve murdered quite a bit more than I would have liked and am starting TO GET FUCKING SICK OF KILLING THE SAME PEOPLE OVER AND OVER AGAIN,” the counselor kicks over your chair and drives his fork into underneath your knee cap. He works it under trying to force the cap to pop off as if he’s trying to remove the cap on a particularly stubborn bottle of soda. “I’m tired of the long drawn out dinners, so make a decision right now, am I going to get to kill you -” Your joint gives and pops, sending needles up your body, you nearly pass out but he pours cold water on your face then drives the fork into your cheek. You can taste the blood, it’s vaguely sweet ignoring the current circumstances. He kicks you cracking your ribs. You can feel a rib puncture a lung. “What do you say, do you want to live, because I can stop being so rough right now, I want to hear you beg damnit, I can get the restraints out, and I can peel you. Have you ever lost some skin, it hurts. It hurts more than anything I can describe. I want you to feel pain beyond the scope of description.” He grabs hold of your wrist, you attempt to break away, but with one swift motion he stabs the knife into your shoulder severing the joint. He takes the knife and presses it into your arm, “please!” you yell, blood seeping from your lips. “Please what,” he says digging the edge of the knife underneath your skin. He starts working it through the outer layer of skin, there isn’t any blood, just the pain of ripping two things that should never be separated with the violating cold of steel. “Please I’ll do anything, just stop!” “I want you to beg for it, beg me to condemn those people, be a weak disgusting roach on the belly of a sin, doom them to burn with you in hopes that you can avoid the suffering,” and as he raises the knife to take another piece of flesh, you concede.

Picture a wooden walkway, the wood is new and treated well. Off in the distance a teenage boy paints the wood with varnish to prevent sun damage. You wonder why he’s missing school, but the thought quickly fades away. You wonder what he’s scrubbing, it looks like day old blood, probably from some fishing thing, but the thought quickly slides from your mind as the heat forces….

More rambling

You probably don’t remember what you ate for breakfast today. Isn’t that scary, you’re putting stuff inside your body and you can’t even remember what it was. How many hours ago was that? I don’t think there are enough hours between breakfasts to justify forgetting what you ate. If you’re going to take something from this then think about how often you forget things that should be so obvious. Where you left your keys, where your kids are, what happened to that friend you met a few weeks ago. It’s okay to forget some things, we have to, it’s pertinent to keep us alive, but to forget what you were eating… 

A few weeks ago I went out to a friend’s house, they have the type of home that’s been lived in by their relatives for the last 50 years or so. Currently under that roof there were three generations of family. The older erring on the 70’s and the younger around my age. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time so it was a lovely little reunion, there were video games and small talk. This particular friend, we’ll call him Tom, was really into Chess. He loved math and so it was sort of right up his alley, but he took out his board and insisted that we play a game. He had this really manic look in his eyes as he set up the board, as if someone had woken him up from an amazing dream. He set up the board not even bothering to check if I had actually wanted to play. 

I’m not a chess player per se, but as a relatively intelligent person it was a close game, but I was on the losing end. Tom’s eyes over the course of the last 20 minutes had gone from manic, to hungry. His expression was a warped smile, the kind of sickly smirk that people wear when they’ve trapped a clever predator. There was a growling sound, not the type of guttural human growling, but a lower, beast-like snarl. It was low at first but got louder, as Tom moved his rook the check my king (mate in 2) his dog pranced into the room knocking over the chess board before leaping at me. I stood up and backed off as his dog tore a piece of shirt off. I wasn’t hurt just a bit startled. The chessboard was knocked over at this point, and I was losing anyway so I decided to forfeit, Tom looked at me his smile back to normal and told me it was okay and that I should leave. Because I wasn’t expecting dinner I was a bit put off, but ultimately decided to leave. As I was leaving Tom’s dad was in the garage moving some wood around. “You’re not going to stick around for dinner?” “No, Tom said I should head off.” It was weird because his dad looked sort of disappointed, I didn’t want to make him feel bad so I offered to stick around, he smiled and walked me back into the house making jokes about the inferior quality of their neighbors tree house. I wish I had left though. If I had just walked away things would be so different, maybe then I’d be able to forget those little details, but more and more I have to keep the little things from getting away from me.

I really hate this new format

The window feels really small and seems constriction, all in all I would say this is the least happy text box I’ve seen in a while. Not that it matters though since I’m using it, I’ll just have to live with the fact that I sold my soul up the river for a chance to use this tiny text box. The worst thing is that it’s all in some veiled hope that I might be able to have some random people from around the internet look at my writing and determine whether or not it’s quality. It’s sickly narcissistic, and beyond that a bit sickly especially since I should be doing work on something that will give me guaranteed pay and a decent amount of kudos. I also recently did comic-con, it was wonderful, and I blame that experience for this temporary splurge into the writing world. I tried doing camp NaNoWriMo and couldn’t finish because it got in the way of my job, and I felt a bit crushed. I was writing a story about being that can control the make up of the universe with a computing language. They try and teach us to use it, and one particular kid has his parents killed be these other beings and wants to be able to avenge his parents, but to do that he has to learn from the things that killed them. It sort of sucked. I think I wanted to write another analytic thing about a Wolf Parade song, but I found the lyrics to be different from what I expected them to be. I didn’t find that disappointing though, it was sort of reassuring knowing that I can be so convinced of something that isn’t even accurate, that in the face of reason I’ll still decree my own invocation of the truth. Really, how beautiful is that satisfaction brought about by delusion. I went to get a copy of my transcript from my high school, much to my avail one of my old teachers was there. We had a nice long chat about some sheep that were hanging out in the garden, among other non-related agricultural things. Listening to music usually gets me writing, something about the tempo and beat of the music that guides my typing fingers. It is nice in a manner of speaking, but writing is usually a sign that I’m sad, but I should be happy. Everything I want is starting to come together, but even if that what can I consider to be happy. Things to do. 1, start exercising. I’ll go do that, a nice run would be super nice, but I need to find the right song to get me going, so I’ll just sit and listen, listen listen… 2. Find a new set of friends who I can go out and do things with, my current repertoire has been beaten down substantially, I wonder where would someone like me go to meet people. Part of me wishes I had made the effort to keep in touch with those Newfoundlanders, they were neat. At the same time though it is probably best that we stopped talking to each other, I think that after awhile people start to get sick of who I am. Doesn’t make much sense to me why it never gets said, but I know I get sick of listening to myself ramble once in a while. Trying to recount the days events inspires so much random detail. For example, I went to a doctor today for a physical, can you believe that, I went to go get checked out by a doctor. It was pleasant. At the end a girl saw my modern algebra book and asked me about it. She also did math stuff, but she was an older lady, taught in Pascal if that’s any reference you can follow. Anyway we had a nice chat, I’m supposed to talk to her about some ideas I had for an after school thing I’m planning. I don’t expect I’ll write here very often. But if anyone is out there listening this is where I’ll always put things.

-M

Reposts

You know the more I browse reddit the less original the posts on tumblr get.

Boston. Fucking horrible.

I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, “Well, I’ve had it with humanity.”

But I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.

But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness.

But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We’d have eaten ourselves alive long ago.

So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, “The good outnumber you, and we always will.

Patton Oswalt (on Facebook)

I feel compelled to reblog this.

Julian

In today’s adventure Julian attempts to get me to go get frozen yogurt in a convoluted attempt to get me in bed.

Today’s Adventure

Out to get guac with Meredith and Julian. Kimmy came along too and did silly things. We met lots of other Rockers in town, one of them seemed stoned. Crushed 28 pine cones on my way from Botany, teacher saw me and told me it was the strangest way to study he had ever seen. I would have to agree. 

Today’s Dolliver Adventure

Aaron brought a bunch of food and decided to start a bacon based economy, Aside from being the most reddit like thing to happen you may now acquire snacks via Dolly Dollars which are representative of the amassed food in our dorm. It was a good day.

latimes:

Wrestling stereotypes at Panorama High School

Last week, the Times highlighted Ella, a 13-year-old girl who has broken boundaries in her efforts to play football alongside her teammates.

And in the same vein, we present the Panorama High School women’s wrestling team, another example of how younger generations are pushing the preconceived notions of which genders belong in which sports.

Micah’s mother thought she was at a tutoring session. She was on the mat.

Within seconds, the heavyweight had pinned her opponent and the referee raised her hand to signify the win. She scurried to the locker room, emerging minutes later wearing her school clothes and lugging a backpack and violin. She hung around for a few moments, said goodbye to her coaches and sprinted outside.

She knew her mother was waiting in the parking lot — ostensibly to pick her up from the tutoring. Wrestling isn’t allowed.

Read through reporter Stephen Ceasar’s whole story here.

Photos: Christina House / For The Times

Way to Micah.

Obligatory Protomen Post

That concert was so good, they got so into it, I made a friend with a cool mustache, and had the closest thing to a religious experience catching Sir Robert Bakker. GG PAX, I wish I was there for the next 2 days. Maybe next year… You were amazing.

pizzaforpresident:

Coming this Valentine’s Day:

White People Embracing based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks

Reblogging for Jackie

Giselle

Giselle, Giselle, your feet all covered in sand, 

The beach yard large when you tried to grab my hand

You ran off yelling, 

Your voice telling,

of a game when I lost when I couldn’t hold your hand.

Giselle, Giselle, your ankles all covered in sand

As you ran right through the beach and tried to grab my hand

Your dress white and flowing

The water showing

a series of losses when I lost the grasp on your hand.

Giselle, Giselle, your frame all covered in sand

As you just lay there and couldn’t take my hand

Your dress blackened and folding

Your blood pooling

As they dragged you out they wouldn’t let me take your hand.