another1b1testhedust

[another1b1testhedust]

To whom it may concern;

I find myself on this rather cloudy Thursday afternoon, spending yet another half-an-hour on Tumblr. I think to myself, that these habits I exhibit must be stifled and in the best case dropped, completely. With another six minutes gone from my pool of life minutes I have left, that I have used to writing these prompts, I much remind me of my own father. Dissatisfied.

[another1b1testhedust]

HAHAHAHA

[another1b1testhedust]

Spy when he takes his mask off

[another1b1testhedust]

Doesnt Sniper play the Saxophone or something?? And with him having that jazzy movement would totally make sense then, since Saxophones are also quite common in jazz.

[another1b1testhedust]

WHERE?? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN REBLOGGING IT??

We should be fine as long as we do not reblog bread.

[another1b1testhedust]

A guide to Team Fortress 2 for new players

A lot of new players struggle to play TF2 when they first start out since the tutorial is very outdated and the coaching system has basically been abandoned at this point, so I thought I’d share what I know about the game. (This is more for casual TF2 than competitive TF2, since nearly everyone starts out playing casually.)

Keep reading

[another1b1testhedust]

Who tf eats raw nutella??

[another1b1testhedust]

Writing Prompt: The hero realises the enemy is them from the future.

"The Stripes and Stars on her Uniform seem to mock me, they seem to laugh at me for even trying to fight up against her. "The damage you've inflicted upon me, they are nothing but fuel for this strive in me to end this for once and for all", i shout at her. She does not react. No, it isnt quite right to say that. I just dont know if she reacts or not, because she has this damn motorcycle helmet. Her possibly ignoring me, pisses me even more off than the fact she cut off two of my toes, just minutes ago. The light shines on her uniform, proving her strength. Not all cadets make it to be a colonel in such a short time. The light disappears as a plane covers the sunshine for a split momoent, covering her in darkness. This was just enough for her to start a surprise attack on me, i definetely didnt see coming. I barely managed to dodge the dagger she threw at me. But this was her moment to strike, she punched me in the guts so hard, my breath got sucked out of my lungs. As I was grasping for air and sink to the floor, she picks up her dagger again. She speaks for the first time in this fight that has cost me my arm and two toes, "The confusion you were feeling in the first few moments must have been replaced with determination and frustration now. But fear not, I am now willing to explain things. Two months ago you have found a little diary. There is not much in it. No text, no drawings or anything like that. Just 36 pieces of blank paper. I know you have counted. Take a seat first, as this will be a bit of a long story, let me fetter your arm. If you resist I'll have to force you." Simply put, I was just too tired to fight back any longer. I watch as she pulls out a llong rope, seemingly out ofnowhere but at closer inspection i can see she is pulling it out of her pocket. The roughly twenty minutes this fight has consumed, I was the one getting beaten into submission. Ironic. I was honored with being the best of the class, having excellent martial arts skills. Hasnt found much use in this fight though. I let her tie my arm and my feet. She sits down besides me and begins to speak, "Two days ago the diary disappeared. And the very next day it showed up again. You lost it the day prior. You dont know how you lost it. You have panicked and searched for it everywhere, but you didnt find it. But it layed in your bed the day after, like nothing happened. Something like this will happen every three to six days or so. There wont happen much except it disappearing and reappearing until four to six years after, where you still keep the diary, even though by now you already have an uneasy feeling and actually want to get rid of it. You still havent written a single entry. The first letters will apppear, after youve lost and found it again. Its only three letters in seemingly random positions on the sheet. The handwriting seems eerily clean. There is no personality behind it. It looks like it could be printed in a foreign font, but you somehow know it is handwriting. You still keep it. After several times of this happening the first words are forming and you understand that someone wants to reach you, tell you something, because your name is written on the sheet and it was the first word that formed. "Diane". You are getting steadily more uncomfortable and want to flush the diary down the drain, burn it until there is nothing left except the ashes, rip out every single page and in the worst of cases, eat every single sheet to get rid of it. And somehow, you dont know why, but at the thought of eating the sheets of the diary, you gain a disgusting sense of appetite. First, the letters came in a rush, appearing every fourish days or so, but barely after your name formed it just kept getting slower. From days to weeks to months. Seven years pass. By this point youve already tried to write an entry, but it keeps sucking the ink out of the pages. In seven slow years, the first entry was fully written. It was an oddly poetic, yet disturbing poem about, well, you'll hear in a moment. May I present you: The road to Destiny

Three frogs ride on a log They arent fast, they go steadily The rider of the log, is searching for a parking lot The waterstream distorts their path heavily The riderfrog steers the log skillfully He tries to outmaneuver a rock bigger than all three of them In a moment of calamity, the sun blinds the riderfrog

The littlest of them frogs struggled with the burden of loneliness, it was too big of an obstacle to stem Diane. Their blood is on your hands Diane. Do not act innocent.We both know what you did. Diane. Diane. Diane. DIANE.

DIA- There it suddenly stops. Many years it lays dorment in its own safe you were willing to buy. But exactly after sixteen years of the poem finishing, there is a 27 page entry and the book is under your bed sheets. Only eight pages of this animality is left. The 27 pages are all the thoughts of your parents exactly three minutes before their death. It is written in red and blue, red representing your father and blue your mother. And at each and every thought the author thought was worth mentioning there is a time stamp. Two minutes and 53 seconds before their death(mom): Where does the sky stop? Isnt the sky just infinitely spreading across the universe, far too big to even measure it correctly? Exactly 2.3 Seconds later(dad): If in the next 25 minutes, a gas station doesnt show up, I will curse this goddamn country and its infrastructure. And so on and so on. The last thoughts of both of your parents are the same: "Im sorry". Who it was they were apologizing for, I dont know. Maybe it was you, maybe it was me. I know of your idea you had since the… incident. Building a time machine to prevent your parents deaths. I have tried everything. The first thing i tried though was to prevent the accident. I tried my best. Nothing worked. Ive travelled several times into the past each time with a different approach. The past is not changeable. So Ive come to the conlusion I gotta try more drastic ideas. And here I am. I ask of you to kill yourself, lest I have to do it." I can only imagine her looking at me. I slowly shake my head. She lets out a small sigh and readied herself to cut open my airpipes. Exactly before she striked I swung my feet as hard as I could, trying to trip her. I succeeded and as she fell the dagger pierced through her like a needle through textile. As she was not moving anymore and as the little red puddle was getting bigger, my breath regulated itself. I could not believe the sheer luck I had. I tried to get rid of the ropes. When I finally got myself free I could move my arm freely. It hurt alot. She still lays on the floor. Her clothes are soaking up all the blood. I cannot resist my curiousity and lift her up a little. Or, atleast I tried to. Her arm didnt feel right. Not human in a weird way. It was way too hard, like wood or metal. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, it sent a shiver down my spine. I quickly dropped her arm and just left. "

As I finish the entry I smile smugly and under my breath mumble "Didnt see that one comin did ya?". I flush the diary down the drain. I had enough of it. Maybe I could focus on something bigger…

[another1b1testhedust]

Als ich klein war hatten wir ein Sandmännchen Buch das wir öfter abends vorgelesen bekommen haben, und in dem Buch hatten die wenn ich mich richtig erinnere kleine glitzersteinchen eingeklebt die den Schlafsand darstellen sollten

Leider war das Resultat davon, dass der “Schlafsand” eher nach ner Hand voll Kieselsteine ausgesehen hat, von der Größe her

und ich erinnere mich noch vivide daran wie meine Mutter jedes mal ganz normal die Geschichte vorgelesen hat, und sobald der Schlafsand-teil kam, hat sie stattdessen sowas gesagt, wie “und dann bewarf das Sandmännchen die Kinder mit seinen Brocken von Geröll bis sie sich nicht mehr bewegtrn” und tbh 10/10

[another1b1testhedust]

Alina und ich - Grand Finale

[another1b1testhedust]

Alina und ich - Kapitel 6  https://www.wattpad.com/1158509358-alina-und-ich-kapitel-6?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=theauthorofyt&wp_originator=b9JHJ4F5lhP%2BJ6%2BPv2PUB7HnFPYAsGrzgKbY1An543r%2Brl4aD%2FHBOq52fQKdRZ0ariUTEjW3pOotvQ%2F%2F8nOacM0nUMZbNamvP8KBiKQkjlPtQWw2CzFJRjuY1LWiduUM

[another1b1testhedust]

Why was the sceleton depressed?

Because he felt bonely

[another1b1testhedust]

Why was the sceleton depressed?

Because it scrolled through tumblr for 15 mins.

[another1b1testhedust]

Mein Versuch der Trümmerliteratur

Die Sonne streckt sich gen Horizont. Es ist mal wieder so weit. Der Tag wechselt in die Nacht. Der Krieg forderte seine Opfer, doch dank derer die ihr Leben an der Front verloren, stehen wir hier, zwar in Trümmern, doch in Frieden. Die Sonne färbte sich nun rot und gelb und pink. Es war ein wunderschönes Spektakel. Ruinen warfen nun lange Schatten, Der Wind spielte mit der Asche und dem Schutt, eine tragödische Schönheit. Kinder die bis eben noch, mit Steinen oder wenn sie Glück hatten, einem Ball gespielt haben, gingen nun, nach Hause, oder zumindestden Resten davon. Stille drückte nun schwer auf der Stadt. Nur hin und wieder war ein Krächzen der Krähen zu hören. Ich starrte in den Nachthimmel. Nur der war gleich geblieben. Blau, weit und kleine weiße Pünktchen. Ein Glück, das Sterne nicht bombadiert werden können. In all der Zerstörung bietete es doch etwas Schutz, Trost, Normalität. Es blieben nicht viele auf der Straße. Alle eilten sie irgendwohin. Dahin, wo sie hingehörten. Ich jedoch blieb weiterhin stehen und dachte nach. Ich hatte niemanden mehr um den ich mich kümmern hätte können. Mein trautes Heim wurde in Grund und Boden gestampft. Ich hatte nicht sehr große Erwartungen, was meinen Hund betraf. Obwohl ich nach Leibeskräften, dem Staat gedient hatte, fühte ich mich ausgeschlossen. Verraten. Ich sah meine Kameraden sterben. All der Schmerz, all die Mühe vergebens. Es interessiert mich nicht ob wir den Krieg gewonnen haben, denn im Krieg sind die ultimativen Verlierer immer das Volk. Auf Papier steht das wir gewonnen haben, doch ein Sieg lässt die Toten nicht wiederkehren oder die Städte wiederaufbauen. Im Krieg gibt es nur Verlierer. Das habe ich erkannt. Hoffen wir nur das dieser Krieg der einzige Weltkrieg in der Geschichte bleibt, ich meine die Menschen müssen doch aus diesem Krieg gelernt haben oder? Mittlerweile hatte ich mich in Gang gesetzt. Ich trotte die leeren Straßen entlang. Auf der Suche nach einem neuen zu Hause, wo jemand auf mich wartet. Die Asche wurde weggeweht. Beide Trümmer blieben liegen, sie setzten sich nicht zusammen. Mein zu Hause und mein Herz.