#couldn't live without it

[kalied0skull]

HOW DO TOU DRAW I CANR DO IT I HATE HAIR!! 🙏🙏🙏 MY DRAWINGS BE BALD CHBI BITCHES!! help ❤️

by trusting the damn process 💀

WELL okay sort of , I'll use a little mannequin for this just because it's funny

okay now that we've got that sorted out, let's start first with straight hair!

straight hair sticks out real funny when it's shorter, so definitely take account of the SHAPE. when you look at short cuts like grown-out buzz cuts, you see spikes. when you see it get longer, it kind of... flops.

straight hair is defined by being epically pushed down by gravity, so you have to remember that it's falling doowwwnnn from the scalp. whenever i need to look at hair flowing in different directions though, it's best to swoop in the direction opposite.

woosh woosh...

but what about curls, right? well! curls are a bit trickier. because it mostly depends on what KIND of curls you want.

all curls start out tiny. but when you want looser curls, you want looser shape!

curls generally all have that "hook" look to them. and the tighter the curl, the more that hook turns in on itself.

it's best to look at curl pattern examples such as these ↓ in order to understand curls best!

the longer your hair goes, it usually always droops. it's best to keep eye on shapes in hair, and maybe even trace hairstyles while you're learning! (that's what i did, and now I can freehand it! :D)

of course there's way better tutorials out there than this silly little thing i made up, but i hope it gives you some help nonetheless!

hair is all about shape, volume, and size. it's one of people's most unique traits! study how hair flows and falls, how it curls and straightens, how it looks wet and dry, that sort of stuff. just study!!! study art, it's so fun!!! especially if you LIKE making it!!!

[ava1nae]

THIS IS SO GOOD WTFF😭😭😭

thinking about 'hate' sex with geto suguru after he defects as his past lover before everything happened except it doesn't go the way you think it would.

the way you fuck him is practically the same as how you would take him before. he still takes your cock so well, and you always fuck him slow and hard instead of fast and sloppy just as he likes it. you still check in after entering him and you always give him time to readjust before you start fucking into him with intent. you still make sure that he comes before he does, that he's satisfied by the end of each session.

except, it's now missing the familiarity it once held. you don't hold his hands anymore, fingers interlacing and pressed against the mattress as he takes you so well, choosing instead to press your palm over the expanse of his hips instead. you never fuck him on his back anymore, keeping his face pressed against the pillows so that you don't look at his face. you always wear a condom so that he can't feel you — or, on the days when he can convince you to bypass that (because he's not a whore. he's only yours, always has been. he's clean for you, okay?), you always pull out before you can fill him up to the brim.

and, look, he can cope with that, okay? he knows he messed up. it's good enough that you even want to see him at all.

but he's also so terribly selfish. and if there's anything he can't live with in this current arrangement, it's two things: one, the fact that you never kiss him anymore when you used to pepper so much of that all over his skin, his face, his lips until he suffocated on your taste, and; two, the fact that you never call him suguru anymore.

"shit." your voice is a low grunt, hovering over the shell of his ear. your breath is ragged, and he can tell that you're already getting close. he's already come earlier and now, he's just lying on his front, taking your attempts to chase after your own high like the good boy that he is.

he whines past the overstimulation, clawing at the sheets. he's glad that you made him fold his knees underneath his chest so now, he doesn't have to hold himself upright. he just has to let himself be pulled in by you, used by you, held up and fucked thoroughly by you. his entire world comes down to just you; the feeling of you inside him, around him, suffocating him.

(but never with him.)

"i'm close," you warn him. as if it matters. as if you'll let him take it the way he used to. you're not wearing a condom, which means that he can feel your pre-cum dripping inside him. he whines once again at the feeling, his hips moving to meet your every thrust.

he takes it as an opportunity to beg anyway. "inside," he gasps out. "i want you inside, please."

you don't listen to him. "fuck, geto." and there it is again, his name but not his given name. never his given anymore. he has given you everything—his heart, his future, his name—but you never want it. no, you don't want it anymore.

you don't want him anymore.

as if you want to rub more salt into the wound, you pull out right as he finishes that line of thought. his hole gapes at the sudden emptiness, twitching as it begs to be filled once again — to be filled by you.

however, you ignore his wants. he hears you wrap your hand around your cock, tugging once, twice, before you're spilling all over his hole, dripping into it, but never inside him.

a choked sound escapes his throat, a sob and a moan all at once. he claws at the sheets one more time, his face burying in the pillow to hide the ugly want and hurt painted all over his face. it shouldn't hurt anymore. this is something that's already been established. you don't want him, you won't even use him to find your own pleasure, won't even stain him and fill him up with your cum despite how often you used to tell him that you loved coming inside of him.

his body shakes and he feels your hand coming to rest on his shoulders, running a smooth line down the length of his spine. you're talking, but he can't hear you with the way that the entire world feels as if it's underwater. he understands what you're telling him all the same. stay here. i'll be back. he's still shaking when you leave, the hotel room he's rented for this very purpose tonight feeling emptier than ever.

he still doesn't move.

stay here.

you didn't kiss him before you went.

but he's not your suguru anymore, and he has long lost the right to being yours.

i'll be back.

[teapot-of-tyrahn]

"right, one more attempt, and then i think we're gonna have to call it the end of the session."

mumbo died on his last attempt. right before grian would have ended the session. right before grian could have saved him.

"but i just don't want to kill jimmy..."

he could have taken the shot then and there. he could have lived.

but the miner didn't want to kill the canary. he wanted the canary to live. and he died for it. because miners aren't meant to go into the coal mines alone.

[xitsensunmoon]

You'd think after getting your dear daycare attendant out of the Pizzaplex you would live happily ever after, hm?

look who changed their mind to post the whole thing together oops

[afacelesschampion]

This is a cruel world, especially for the little things. Not all of them are allowed to live.

LONGLEGS (2024) dir. Osgood Perkins

[benevolenterrancy]

Art prompt of Shen Qingqiu holding the aro flag (fits his color scheme)

the real reason this man doesn't realise he's tripping every romance flag in the story

[thematthewmmurdock]

Random HC I have about Jack Abbot. This man loves his wife. Like loves his wife. You are his everything. There for him when he was going through his shit...and then when he was going through his shit again. A steady lighthouse in the sea of fuckery that is his life. First thing he does when his shift ends is put his wedding ring back on. First thing he does when he gets home is kiss you silly. He could be dead on his feet and cross-eyed from exhaustion, and he's still gonna find you when he walks through that door. Press his lips sweetly to yours and hold you so tightly, you wonder if he'll ever let go. And he wouldn't if he had a choice. Just stay with you forever. But duty calls, as it always does. And he'll answer that call every time, like he always has. You love that about him. But he'll always come back. And he'll always greet you with a smile and a kiss. Because Jack Abbot really fucking loves his wife.

[tsukiglitch]

Home

(and pets I guess??)

The only thing I did,

that I didn't regret doing,

was taking you home with me.

Something happy after the last one!

So Yomiel has alot of regrets in the lost past years, but one thing he for sure didn't regret was definitely taking care of Sissel.

I am 100% sure Yomiel would have gone mad(or worse even) and plan the whole revenge thing WAY earlier if he never had met Sissel to bring him comfort. Since that mean he didn't have a Friend to talk with or see him and still make him Feel like a living person.

And that would have been pretty bad for Sissel as well, because he would never found someone who truly understands him too. And since he's still a fragile Kitten who's probably very hungry, he could die very easily, without the comfort of anyone. He would have been all alone.

Aka it could've been a bad time for everyone.

But luckily the man in red had his Son at that time, so everything's ended up (mostly) fine! :D

[zivadinozzo]

NCIS 10x04: Lost at Sea

[kettlefire]

A Panic in Time (DP x DC)

This is all thanks to the awesome @tkiesai for basically being the foundation of this idea! This is probably going to be long, and probably won't delve that deep into my ideas about this idea. Largely so it's not insanely long. But here I go!

°•°•°•°

Bruce's head felt like it had been shoved through a straw and spit out on the other side. The throbbing was annoying, but it wasn't anything the man couldn't handle.

His mind was muddled, memories of what happened prior to him awaking was blurry and unsure. Bruce knew it wasn't something good.

He vaguely remembered a league meeting, a threat, something looming. It wasn't world ending, or at least that's what Bruce remembered. It should have been something they could handle.

But now, here was Bruce. Waking up in the grass of some random park. He was dressed in casual attire, something he'd wear in public as Bruce. Although last he remembered he was in the Batsuit.

The sun felt too bright in the sky. The sound of families filled the air and children's laughter. No one seemed to blink twice at Bruce as he pulled himself together.

It took a moment to steel himself, to gain composer again. It took a few sweet lines, and a charming smile for a nice mother to slide him a few painkillers. The lies rolling off his tongue like second nature.

To his luck there was a newspaper at the top of the trashcan. He was in some town called Amity Park, and the year... the year was the problem.

It was 1996. Whatever had happened had sent Bruce back in time. There was a few suspects Bruce can think were the cause of this. But something in his gut kept drawing his train of thought to the Flash.

It seemed like each time the League had any time related problems, Barry was in the center of it. Which also leaves Bruce with the question if he was the only one sent back in time.

God, he could only imagine the nightmare if the others were sent back in time. Yes, they can be professional. They understand the risk of changing things in the past.

But Bruce also understands that his team can be less than... intelligent at times.

Despite that, Bruce needed to find a way to get back to Gotham. He might not know for sure where everyone was right now, but he knew Alfred was the safest bet.

A plan laid out in Bruce's mind, a list of people he knew wouldn't be a risk to approach. He just needed to find a way to get to them. He had barely made it to the gates of the park before a shrill cry pierced the air.

There was just one loud outcry, before it quieted down. Bruce glance around the space, spotting a young boy curled on the ground. Tears streamed down the boy's chubby cheeks.

And no one even moved to the boy's aid. Not a single mother spared more than one glance in the kid's directions. No parents came rushing over to the boy's side.

Bruce almost walked away, he really did. This wasn't his time, anything he does can cause immense damage to the timeline. But when Bruce caught sight of blood bubbling from a scrape on the boy's knee, Bruce couldn't ignore him.

Maybe it's just the father in him, but Bruce barely even notices when he's crossing the small distance. His mind zeroing in on a hurt child that needed help. Kneeling before the small boy with a gentle smile, and pulling his handkerchief free from his pocket.

"You're alright there, buddy. It looks like you took a bit of a tumble there." Bruce slipped into the same tone he used to use when his kids were young. Gentle and understanding, as he pressed the handkerchief to the small scrape.

The boy sniffled, tears slipping from his eyes. Bruce was more focused on the way the kid was looking at him. Like he couldn't fathom someone coming to his aid.

That look had Bruce's heart breaking slightly. He's seen a similar look before. The few times he's come to the aid of a hurt child that wasn't used to getting help.

Something no child should ever feel or experience.

"Where's your parents, kiddo?" Bruce asked after a moment of silence from the boy. He had waited until the kid's breathing settled down when the boy's chest stopped pumping so quickly.

Except his question only seemed to bring a new wave of tears to the boy's eyes. The small child just seemed to curl into himself further, ducking his gaze away from Bruce.

And as much as Bruce didn't want it to be true, it was clear the kid didn't have the support he needed. It might not as be as far as some of Bruce's kids have had in the past.

But it was clearly not good.

"That's okay, it's alright. What's your name?" Bruce tried again. The boy's silence was leaving an uncomfortable pit in Bruce's stomach.

"D-Danny..." The boy spoke out his name between sniffles, and Bruce felt a wave of relief hearing the boy speak.

In hindsight, Bruce can see how strange the scene might look. A slightly disheveled man comforting a lone young boy in a park. It wasn't exactly perfect.

But with the lack of reactions from the parents around, Bruce had a feeling the town had an idea who this boy was. The whole situation just didn't feel that right for him.

It took a few more comments before Bruce managed to get the boy to crack a smile. A laugh had felt like breaking a massive wall.

Before long, Bruce had Danny actually like any other boy he's known. Carefree and happy, just like a child should be.

"You didn't tell me your name, mister." Danny had suddenly cut down the relaxed moment they were in. A pout laced the boy's lips as he looked up at Bruce, almost accusatory.

"I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." Bruce responded without missing a beat. He knew this might cause problems in the future. He wasn't supposed to be here.

But when his gut is telling him something, he can't just ignore it. He checked his pockets, finding no business cards anywhere. So, Bruce fell back in plan B.

"No matter how long it's been from now, you can come to me for help. Just look for Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, and when you find me... just say Fairbanks sent you."

Bruce wasn't sure if he'll ever see Danny again when he goes back to his own time. Wasn't even sure if this was the same universe as his own. But he couldn't walk away without at least offering the boy help in some way.

When Danny's eyes filled up with tears again, Bruce thought he said something wrong at first. That was until the boy was suddenly clinging to his shoulders in a tight embrace, muttering 'thank you' over and over again.

Bruce felt himself almost close to tears just from that alone. His heart was aching for the small boy. Even if Bruce couldn't help Danny anymore than this, he was hoping the boy would have a better life.

One where he wasn't clinging to a stranger for comfort that family should be providing him.

THWAMP

It didn't hurt, but it did cut their hug short as Bruce suddenly pulled away. Turning his head to see a young girl wielding a wiffle bat, and another young boy standing behind her.

Her purple eyes glared at Bruce like he had done the worst thing in the world. Her grip on the bat was threatening and ready to swing again. Her knuckles white from the tight grip alone.

Maybe leaving this time era might not be as easy as Bruce thought as the young girl probbed him with angry and scolding questions. Not that Bruce could blame her.

He just hoped this hiccup didn't get back to the league. They'd have a field day hearing about how Batman got scolded by a child with a wiffle bat.

°•°•°•°•°•°

Danny wasn't sure if this was the best idea. It's been years since he met Bruce Wayne. So many years. Danny had just been a kid, not even ten, when Bruce had introduced himself.

When he had an adult, actually check in on him. Yet, it was a memory Danny couldn't forget. Maybe it was just the kindness that Bruce radiated.

Or maybe it was when Sam came to his "rescue" near the end. Regardless, it was cemented in his mind. A core memory that Danny cared with him through the years.

Now, here he was, roughly seven years later. Standing in front of a manor that put even Sam's place to shame.

It took a lot of courage for Danny to knock. Barely a second later, an old man answered the door, an accent Danny was certain Bruce hadn't had.

A stuttered explaination of being here to see Bruce Wayne, that the man knew him, barely left Danny's mouth before the old man ushered him inside.

The man, Alfred, told Danny to wait by the door before vanishing further into the manor. It took a lot for Danny to not just vanish.

Being half ghost nowadays had its quirks, Danny could just vanish, and no one but Alfred would know. But he couldn't.

It had taken a lot for Danny to make the journey to Gotham City. He hadn't even thought to look up a current picture of Bruce either. Which was probably a big mistake on his end.

Danny didn't even know if Bruce was offering this kind of help. But Danny didn't have many allies to turn to. He needed help.

Not just for himself but for his family. For Amity Park. He couldn't be afforded the ability to run away. Not now.

Danny felt all the air leave his lungs when Bruce entered the area. The man didn't look a day older than what Danny remembered. Bruce looked a bit more put together, not like he had just jumped out of a moving car, but it was Bruce.

"Uhm... I don't know if you remember me. But my name's Danny... we met when I was a kid." Danny started trying to explain himself before Bruce could speak. He recognized that confused look anywhere, and Danny didn't have the guts to go through with this if Bruce asked any questions.

"You told me if I ever needed help, to come find you. Bruce Wayne in Gotham City... you, uh, told me to tell you Fairbanks sent me?"

That came out more like a question than Danny would have liked. But it did ease his nerves a bit as he watched Bruce's slightly confused expression turn to alarm and surprise.

Danny wasn't sure what this would do. If Bruce could truly help him. But he was out of options. Just seeing Bruce recognize something he said was enough to calm the teen's anxiety slightly.

"I'm sorry, Danny... I don't remember you. But I believe you and I want to help you. Come inside, have a seat, and tell me what's going on."

That response was enough to have Danny's eyes fill with tears. His chest filling with a sense of hope he hadn't felt in weeks now.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay.

[lazylittledragon]

Please ignore if this is too personal but IIRC you were/are dealing with caffeine addiction? I hope you're doing Ok, as a former addict I know how hard it is so wishing you the best xx

thank you for checking in!!

i'm doing very well!! i haven't cut out coffee completely bc i really don't think i can (it's been one of my daily pleasures for SO long), but right now i only have 1-2 espresso shots and i don't even have it every day anymore

also remembering that i used to have 4-6 shots per drink, sometimes multiple times a day, makes me want to throw up now which is probably a good sign ajkdhdsh

[the-puppet-atilea]

𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑—𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔! 𝙰 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙳𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢. 𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝙽𝚒𝚌𝚔'𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝙸 𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚝? 𝙼𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙷𝚎'𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚢, 𝚜��𝚊𝚛𝚙, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌?

[kacievvbbbb]

Mihawk and the Red Haired Pirates

-Look I don't know what to tell you, Mihawk's epithet is literally Hawkeyes meaning he is world-renowned for his eyesight meaning that he'd probably make a good sharpshooter. And maybe Yasopp decides to test this theory with a little friendly competition. And after giving Mihawk a quick intro into how guns work, maybe Yasopp had to pull out every trick there is in the book to narrowly avoid losing to said Hawkeyes, who as it turns out is indeed very good at hitting targets and who had literally just learned how to cock a gun not even 30 minutes ago. But who's to say what actually happened, the day of November 25th at 2:35pm? Certainly not Yasopp, the record clearly shows he is undefeated.

-Once a year Ben and Mihawk go on a little trip just the two of them. They act like it's just so they can shit-talk Shanks but actually, they just go fishing somewhere in the middle of the ocean and drink horribly overpriced and fancy alcohol. Look Benn loves his crew, and would die for them but also if he doesn't get at least a week to himself once every year he'd kill them all himself. He deserves nice things and a little peace and fucking quiet and not being constantly inundated with the whims of a man child and Mihawk's the closest he's ever gonna get to a friend with taste, and he travels alone with a bunch of fancy wine. Sue the man. Mihawk who would rather nap is fine to let someone else sail his overgrown raft against the annoyingly ever-changing grandline for a week or two.

-Wouldn't it be cute if Mihawk learned a lot of his fancier cooking techniques from Roux? Like he knew how to cook to survive but watching Roux is how he learned to like properly dice vegetables and that eating fish prepared the same way three times a day is not infact a life he would like to lead. This was of course less cute to Lucky Roux who in the beginning had no clue what was happening and only felt the weight of Mihawk's otherworldly stare on the back of his neck as he handled knives. (he defiantly for at least a little bit, thought Mihawk had a knife fetish. which, he's not entirely wrong)

-To Building Snake (who I just learned is the RHP's navigator) Mihawk might as well be a modern-day miracle. In his eyes, Mihawk's sailing is proof that god exists, because only divine intervention can explain how this man ever gets anywhere never mind on time or early even. Building Snake is pretty sure he owns neither a map nor a log pose and he has never actually seen the sails of Mihawk's pretend ship unfurled or in use. Actually, he has never seen Mihawk do anything but sit menacingly on the throne in the middle of the boat, which why? If you think about it for even a second longer that 2 minutes how Mihawk "sails" anywhere breaks every law of physics and somehow even the concept of geography. Building Snake would like to dissect him and study him under a microscope but knows the boss would disapprove.

[otrtbs]

saw this one tiktok that was like abt two girls who live together now bc one of them read the other’s fanfic and i want that ,,,, highkey

[fusionsprunt]

me when my meteor-powered robot gf attempts to murder me 😳😳

[bittersweet-jack-of-no-trades]

Alright, let's do it: let's talk about the grunkles dying.

Not how they die--- it doesn't really matter. Illness, heart attack, monster battle on the high seas. Death is death is death--- and the grunkles have caught it. Stan and Ford meant it post-Weirdmaggedon when they said they'd never again be apart: one goes not even a minute after the other. Together. Maybe hand-in-hand, all bittersweet-like. They don't care too much about the details--- they're dead! Both have been in far worse spots.

What comes after is harder.

Stan was already legally dead and Ford was a criminal in most conceivable dimensions. They had avoided the issue by sailing the world on a non-registered sailboat and paying entirely in cash and fraudulent credit cards--- and had skirted the issue of a will by derailing the conversation with jokes about immortality. When they gave anything close to a "real" answer, they were... at best incomprehensible. Stan said he wanted to be cremated and put in a Pitt Cola bottle. Ford wanted his body donated to science. Stan wanted to be swung around on a rope outside the Mystery Shack as an attraction. Ford wanted to be set adrift at sea to terrify cargo ships. Each wish was more contradictory than the last, and while it was funny while they were alive, the remaining Mystery Crew were left clueless. It felt impossible to make any decisions, each of them worried about doing the wrong thing. Grief is a thick, unnavigable thing, ebbing and flooding like the tide, blurry like fog over winter water, and they can't turn to the two men that always gave them the best advice. They keep waiting for Ford and Stan to pop back up, say it was all a prank, and outlive them all by decades. That, of course, never happens; Stanford and Stanley Pines are dead. There is no avoiding this.

Mabel and Dipper find the journal one afternoon by the helm of the Stan o' War II, tucked haphazardly under a coffee cup long evaporated dry and perhaps never washed. It's blue, with no symbol on the front, and within in there's no research: just every single letter and postcard and artifact Stan and Ford's family have sent them over the years. Dipper's research papers, Mabel's magazine spreads, incorrect tax forms from Soos, Wendy's many trade certificates. On the back cover is a picture taken at the twins' 21st birthday: all of them crammed together, wearing those ridiculous accessories that come with rented photo booths, grinning ear to ear.

It's not hard to get the Stan o' War II anchored off the coast of Oregon, pull a couple strings and call in a few favors to make sure no one will remove it or destroy it or sink it. It becomes legend: a sailboat filled with evidence of creatures unimaginable, haunted jovially by two brothers who won't stop messing with you, even after death. Coming here gives you good luck in treasure hunting and helps you pass your thesis defense, if you've got one coming up.

An eclectic collection of people maintain the boat, but it's usually Dipper, Mabel, and Soos. They like to look over all the memories again, tell people ghost stories, and hand out bumper stickers for the Mystery Shack. One question they'll never answer, however, is what actually happened to the brothers' bodies. They leave that up to their enraptured audience.

Some say the brothers were buried, and some say they were cremated and ashes spread at sea. Some say their bodies are within the hull of the boat, some say they're still alive, and this is all a publicity stunt. Some say they're in a lab somewhere being experimented on, some day they've been broken into so many pieces from organ donation you wouldn't recognize them. Some say they did die but were brought back to life; some say they're in outer space, or another dimension.

Some say they never existed at all... but that's the only theory nobody actually believes.