#truly is the worst

[honeypleasejustkillme]

i hate how simple things hurt me a lot

[hellsite-hall-of-fame]

finally finally finally

[deeply-unserious-fellow]

Vox has terrible taste in men. Like between Alastor, a canabalistic serial killer with the worst haircut I've ever seen who is both aroace & so emotionally constipated and egotistical that he can't even FRIENDZONE you because that'd be showing weakness, and Valentino, a fucking serial abuser/rapist who is so fucking stupid and bull-headed that you have to scream in his face to make him listen and even then only understands what you're trying to tell him after you've gone through a step by step process of the most basic ideas, that man can NOT catch a break dear god-

His taste in women is pretty good tho Velvette's great :)

[ohbother2]

*watching Charlie try and plead for sinners to be redeemed*

do you see this shit Lute?

[maybeinanotherworld]

physics professors are really going through it- every day, I think about my quantum physics professor who once went on a rant about how there's too many types of mustard these days followed by the words "well, at least quantum physics is less complicated than the mustard aisle" followed by one of the most cursed derivations I have ever seen

[morganbritton132]

Eddie’s IMDb page lists his acting credits, his voice work, the music video he directed, and the fun fact that he played basketball in high school which is NOT TRUE. You wear your boyfriend’s old tshirt once during an interview in 1998 and people will accuse you of being a basketball loving freak for the rest of your life.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Happy Valentine's Day! (and this blog's first post anniversary!)

[antimony-medusa]

Missa hits a sick water bucket clutch (lying)

[wavebf]

earbud wire caught on door after user already angry, 15 injured 67 dead

[emotional-emotion]

Seinfeld (1989 - 1998) 6.23 The Face Painter

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

New dad Astarion who is about to see his newborn child for the first time.

Of course, he expects his child to be the personification of serene beauty and divine grace. Them to have their father’s silken silvern locks, his immaculately chiselled features—the artwork perfected by Tav’s wonderful watercolour eyes…

And then he actually sees the child and—well—everybody assures him that, yes, Astarion, all babies look like that barely a half hour after birth…

He kind of has to take that at face value because he hasn’t seen an awful lot of newborns in his lifetime.

But it would’ve been nice if someone had told him that newborns happen to look like shrivelled potatoes, because he’s really, really trying to not let his bewilderment show. 

Astarion swallows. 

Tav’s beautiful eyes are watching him, waiting for a reaction—an enthusiastic one, no less. 

Maybe Tav will believe that he’s overcome with emotions at seeing his firstborn child? 

“Oh my, darling, I’m…speechless,” is all he can choke out, though, being rather proud that it’s at least not a lie. 

To his luck, Tav only nods dreamily, her full attention back on the odd little bundle in her arms.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

Yes, perfectly hideous. 

Astarion only hums in a way of reply.

That—his daughter, he supposes—is with no doubt one of the ugliest things he’s ever seen, but he has a feeling that his honesty wouldn’t be appreciated after Tav laboured for hours to give birth to this…potato-baby.

“Come, hold her, Astarion,” Tav says, then, bidding him to sit next to her on the bed.

The mattress shifts under Astarion’s weight and he obediently holds his arms out so that Tav can gently place the sleeping child against his chest.

Now that Astarion can take a better look, he can confirm that his daughter’s hair is of an indefinable colour and that her features are neither his nor Tav’s, plain as can be. Surely it won’t stay like that?

He and Tav are so ridiculously beautiful, their child can only be drop-dead gorgeous, right?

Astarion’s stomach drops indeed when, suddenly, something occurs to him. 

Oh dear, what if it’s his fault? He has no recollection of his family whatsoever; it’s very much possible that he and his immaculate looks are the exception in his lineage, and that he’s passed on only those mysterious less-than-perfect genes…Tav, as per usual, can’t be the issue!

Astarion is still catastrophizing when the bundle in his arms begins to stir.

All of a sudden, gold-speckled pale green eyes are looking up at him as if to ask what the fuck this weirdo’s problem might be. 

“Oh,” the weirdo in question exclaims at once. “Darling, look, she has your eyes!”

Tav, hugging him from behind, rests her chin on his shoulder, so she can watch as Astarion’s finger tenderly strokes their baby’s chubby cheek.

Their daughter also has, as it turns out, ten fingers and toes, a cute little nose and a hungry mouth—everything that’s supposed to be there is there, and it seems to be working fine, too—which is a huge relief. 

And aren’t those the tiniest pointy ears Astarion has ever seen? Let alone the unexpectedly strong fingers grasping at his!

Astarion, worries forgotten in a heartbeat, can’t help but smile at the baby in his arms. 

She is perfect, after all. 

Tav, face hidden in the crook of his neck, begins to tremble against his back. 

For a second, Astarion thinks she’s crying but then her laughter fills the chamber. It takes her a good moment to articulate whatever it is she finds so very funny.

“She'll grow out of it, you know?” Tav giggles in between her fits of laughter. 

Astarion stiffens. “Of what?”

“The turnip look. That’s what you’ve been worrying about the whole time, haven't you?”

“I was leaning more towards potatoes—but yes, I might’ve been a little worried about that,” Astarion admits sheepishly, although a grin is already tugging at his lips.  

Regaining her composure, Tav reaches over Astarion’s shoulder, her hand joining his as they get to know their child.

“Give it a couple of days and she will look like your proper little elf—beautiful just like her father.”

A content sigh leaves Astarion’s lips, right before he presses them against Tav’s temple.

“That’s the second best news I’ve heard today, my heart, truly.”

[beebfreeb]

One of the most heart-wrenching things that've ever happened to me occurred while trying to research the Super Paper Mario art style.

"Ohh what a beautiful and interesting art style! It is very distinctive! I wonder if anyone else has tried or wanted to try breaking it down and replicating it?" Obliviously, I typed in Super Paper Mario Art Style into my search bar... only to find many people calling it ugly and saying they hate it.

This simply could not be... permanent damage was done to my artistic soul.

No joy? No whimsy in this world? No love of early computer graphics? Of the art that was born from the computer and is difficult to replicate without one? Of the art made when this was something new and fascinating? No love for something unique?

Super Paper Mario don't listen to all those haters I love your geometric art style influenced by what shapes are easily drawn on a computer and the smooth mechanical interpolation within your animations. I love you. Also the music is banger.

[cor-lapis]

thinking about where the original circa 1.1 harbinger quartet ended up 3+ years later

Signora: dead :(

Dottore: died (multiple times) but is still alive :(

Tartaglia: sent to jail

Scaramouche: sent to university

[essektheylyss]

Every time Matt goes, "Crit on the Essek die :3" I just laugh flashing back to how badly Essek rolled on literally every roll except one.

[little-pondhead]

Danny moved to Gotham.

Freakshow is touring in Gotham.

Freakshow knows Danny is in Gotham.

Danny knows Freakshow is still after him.

Danny's faith in heroes has been shattered.

Danny turns to the only person powerful enough to run Freakshow out of town, hopefully for good.

Danny turns to the Joker for help.

The Joker is looking for a new punching bag sidekick after Harley Quinn left him.

Danny is just the perfect person to be shaped by the Joker's hands.

Danny becomes the new Joker Junior.

[angryducktimemachine]

I watched the Granada Holmes Hound of the Baskervilles and this is my explanation (and defense ?) of Holmes just absolutely horrible looking stew.

[ID: a digital drawing of Sherlock Holmes. He's walking across a moor with his hands behind his back, holding a letter. A thought bubble above him reads "I forgot my damn stew by the fire." /End ID]