Jim Henson and Frank Oz Performing Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy on the Muppet Show
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@pixlokita, i know i promised a comic for the ballpit au, but it turned into a small animation. Whoops. Hope you like it!
bonus content under the cut!
Version with a bonus frame:
The bonus frame by itself:
the text full says “Uncle Henry, you shouldn’t be eating this late. I understand that you have had a stressful day, however, this is not a healthy way to deal with stress. Eating before bed can cause heart burn, or esophageal irritation, which can cause difficulty sleeping. That cereal is also full of sugar and unhealthy preservatives. I will make a healthy breakfast for us in the morning.”
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Sergei absently exchanged the blue marker for another colored marker from the tray, began shading in the sine wave. Orange. In lines like strands of hair. Margo’s hair. The memory of it soft through his fingers, of the scent of her hair, her skin, clean and warm, the sweet, strong smell of the brandy on her lips.
He moved to the negative half cycle, the white of the board again alternating through a fall of orange hair. He wondered when her hair had turned white. Did it happen slowly over the last eight years? Had the long, cold, lonely winters she wasn’t used to, hadn’t, couldn’t have prepared for, slowly leached the color from her hair, from her life? She was not meant for a cage, no matter how gilded.
Automatically, he filled in the last positive half cycle, the orange strands thinning and fading as his mind continued to wander and his pressure against the board slackened. Or had her hair turned white all at once in a shock? Was it upon learning of the bombing? Worry for her colleagues? Aleida? Did she blame herself? Was it something that happened after? Something they’d done to her? He froze. Lefortovo…
“Uh, Mr. Bezukhov?”
Slowly, he blinked, the whiteboard and the classroom refocusing around him.
“Mr. Bezukhov?”
Sergei turned, taking in the students behind their desks, their faces, some smirking, most disinterested, a few studious. Right. He had a class to teach. A life she’d paid for with her own. He owed it to her to live it. This thought had sustained him through the years, kept him moving forward, moving on. It didn’t matter that she was alive. It shouldn’t. It couldn’t.
“So, as you can see, the current is not always constant.”
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I did this to help illustrate a point I'm making in a different post, but I feel it's relevant above and beyond that specific context.
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