smosh
So once upon a time I bought some bacon and he said his name was Frank and I told him I really liked bacon and I didn’t think our friendship would last very long. This made Frank very upset but I didn’t give two shits and ate him up anyway. I met another dude he was soap, and he went by Charles. I hated Charles so I threw him in the shower and watched bits of him come apart and go down the drain. hi.
So i’m supposed to type without thinking um typing without hinking pie jesus god i can’t wait for shiloh’s generation to progress why is it going so slowly but i guess that’s my fault i have to pee i have to pee i have to peeeeee
I’m trying to decide what book idea I want to write first. Because I have so many ideas. But I want to see what my writing style is before I write my favorite idea, and create it into a series.
Oh, but for a draught of vintage that hath cooled by the river’s cold embrace, and that which does not lie makes a man yearn for the angel’s wayside. Ever so lightly, the male is cast down, his yoke becoming filial peasantry to his mother’s churlish grounds. And for the father - he takes up his wine and fencing.
There are quite a few other things I should be doing right now than being on Tumblr, yet here I am, sitting in front of my computer and stuffing my face in honor of Pancake Day. I feel like I should be upset with myself for this, and yet, I am not. I am quite content to just sit here and dick around and deal with the consequences later—it’s the way I’ve always been, and I ‘ll probably always be this way. I don’t mind it, and the people who know me don’t mind it either. It’s just part of who I am—a hybrid cross between a languid, kicked-back individual and a hummingbird of a person, jamming through her procrastinated-upon bills and assignments at the speed of light.
To write a story of love and romance
Not as easy, like learning to Scottish dance
To post a new story, I have no such luck
I’m starting to feel like I really really suck
So with a saddened heart, I stare at my screen
Oh why oh why is my imagination so mean?
… I write poetry without thinking? Welp, no life here.guuuuuurl you looking fine today guuurrrll dayum i wanna squeeze dem tittays awww yea gurl yea yknow it sucks how today i’ve been missing all the cool streams and why did this morph from me being gangsta to me wondering why i’ve been missing all of byn’s streams of hayao miyazaki movies siohgrwelighw
I wondered to myself why no one else had seen him standing so far away, before he was suddenly, impossibly saving my life. With chagrin, I realized the probable cause — no one else was as aware of Edward as I always was. No one else watched him the way I did. How pitiful.
Three minutes pass and the story begins with a simple thought of the mind, a simple little phrase or even perhaps even a simple little image. Falling or flying, wandering or running, aimless and not once stopping. It comes and keeps going like a white rabbit late for a very important date. Is this what dreams are or is this the part where reality breaks apart?
…wait, huh?
(Source: smoshdawsonbuscus)
