A Jesse Surprise

These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life and new civilizations.

To boldly discover the most creative ways in the universe to say "Fuck Around and Find Out."

I feel at home already

@roadwrkahead

genuinely obsessed with the grimace milkshake meme I hope it's got the McDonald's marketing team locked in a board room biting their nails desperately trying to figure out if this is positive press or not

In world where there are two types of tower-dwellers, a Princess is locked in a tower.

There are two types of tower-people: A Princess, put there to remain pure until marriage or until rescued, and a Wizard, put there by choice to study and learn in isolation. Princesses are defined by their beautiful long hair, and Wizards are defined by their beards and impressive 'stache.

There is a Princess, and she lives in a tower. She was put there recently by her mother and father, to keep her pure and untouched until they can secure the marriage to another kingdom and a prince shes doesn't love. She has long, almost brown sandy-blonde hair, pale green eyes and a slim, tender build. She is not the fairest in the land, but she is tall and pretty. If compared to a rose, she would be the humble yet graceful willow tree, slender and long. She has wanted to be a wizard since a young age, but there is no way for a princess to become a wizard. Princesses are delicate girls to be protected and sold off until their either dead or Queens or have found True Love, unsuited to the life of experimentation and study of a wizard. That is what her mother tells her, in a quiet scolding that is far more forceful and cruel then it has any right to be. And the princess, terrified, believes her.

She used to run the castle halls, stick in hand, robe fashioned out of a delicate silk bedsheet, shouting fake spells at birds while her servants chased her. But as she grew older, her restraints became tighter, and more and more often, she was confined in her room to embroider in solitude with barely the comfort of a window or a maid. The life she is forced into makes her hang her head low, makes her hands be paper-soft, and demands her hair be long and beautiful and perfect like all other princesses. The world she longed to be a part of was a world of study and experimentation, and as the kingdoms princess and tool, she could not even dare to hint at her desires into adulthood. She could become a witch, she knew, flee the castle barefoot and sink into the loving embrace of the swamp. But witches don’t live in towers, and they make potions instead of spells, and they don’t grow the flowing whimsical beards that wizards do.

But that does not mean she has to be bored in her tower. Fascinated by magic as she always has been, she arranges with a long string of bribes for books on spells and forbidden potions to be smuggled along with her meals. She studies them while the clock ticks down for either a prince to arrive or her marriage to be finalized. Either one will doom her, and she wants to enjoy herself as much as possible until her marriage. She pours over the books long into the night by candlelight, and all day, she rests her pale, tired eyes. She experiments, and she reads, and she studies non-stop, barely stopping for meals and littering her books with an assortment of food stains. She cuts off her hair to use in bubbling gold potions, her skin becomes scarred with a rainbow of the consequences of failed experiments, and her dresses turn into makeshift cheesecloths and fire-fuel. She washes late into the night after she is done with her work for the day in the darkness, not glancing into the mirror that has become cracked and dusty. When her eyesight starts to fail from strain and working in darkness, she fashions for herself bottle-round glasses, blown by herself in the depths of her tower. Engrossed as she is in her studies, she does not notice the tower warp, and the meals stop rotting, and how she started out in one circular room but now has a loft and a second floor and the fact that the tower seems much much taller then it was originally.

What she DOES notice though, is when brushing crumbs from her face she feels facial hair on her upper lip.

She rushes to the bathroom and thrusts a candle into the holder as she looks at herself. In the dusty mirror, she sees the beginnings of a bushy mustache sit on her upper lip, much further along in growth then be logically possible without her noticing. It’s a pale blonde, like her hair, and she notices faintly that there are streaks of grey in it, a very familiar shade of classic wizard grey. She brings a trembling hand to her upper lip.

Much, much later, a prince rides up to the tower. It is tall, and warped, and very clearly belonging to a wizard, despite the royal family claiming their daughter lives here.

He shouts up, a bit nervous because of the thorny vines wrapping the beautiful stonework.

“Hey! Does a Princess live here?”

A young man with large bottle glasses and a rather impressive mustache leans out of the tower, his short, sandy-blonde hair spilling lightly in the wind. He starts to say something, then glances back into his house. A smile breaks out on his face as he seems to realize something.

“No!” He shouts back, after a moments hesitation. “But a wizard does!”

you forgot the best one

imagine you're frolicking in a field, prancing through long grass, singing "falalalala~", occasionally picking a flower. etc, etc. but a guy in the same field is watching you, about 20 paces away. he lowers his opera glasses (which he was using to watch you) and starts clutching his head and screaming with blind rage because of how much you're pissing him off. that's what it's like to be on the internet.

my birthday is in july! :)

“Do you have any last words before I kill you?” snarled the demon. That was 33 years ago and I’ve not said a word since yet it still shadows me, waiting.

Today he is wearing the face of an unnoticeable man. Gazes travel past him and over him as he moves through the crowd outside. He is the human version of oil on water. Plain face, plain clothes, plain everything. He walks like so many others, talks, laughs, and smiles.

I know it is him, though. 

After thirty-three years of spending each day with him at the edges of my vision, I would know him blind. 

He walks through the doors and immediately begins scanning the café for me—he knows where I am, he always does, but he enjoys pretending that this is a game he is letting me win. Eventually, he spots me, sitting in booth tucked into the furthest corner. It is where I always sit, where I have spent every Friday since before he met me. 

He shoots me a smile and strides across the floor, ducking behind patrons and swivelling past chairs and tables. Before long he is standing outside my booth.

His hands are in his pockets, and if he were wearing a more rugged face, I might have been intimidated. “This seat taken?” He asks. He is smiling wide now. He knows I am with no one.

I shake my head.

“Neat,” he says, jumping into the seat and sliding as far in as he can until he is right in front of me. “What are you eating?” He asks.

When I was younger, I would raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief, or annoyance. Now, I only nod toward the tart on my plate. It’s self-explanatory enough. 

Besides, he’s not curious about what I’m eating. He’s curious about whether I’ll speak.

If you ask my family or friends about why I no longer talk, they’ll sit you down for an hour and explain the deep, traumatic effects of post-traumatic stress disorder. They’ll show you the news, interviews with the police in the paper, and explain how, ever since that day, not a single noise has escaped my mouth.

They’ll explain how I tried learning sign language, morse code, or simply writing down things on paper, and how time and time again, I refused. How all communication with me has ceased, aside from nods and shakes of my head. 

Then, of course, they’ll insist that it isn’t a bad thing and that I am an “excellent listener!” 

If you ask him, he’ll say I am doing it simply to spite him, or to avoid death. On bad days, it’s both. Often, he will ask me why I refuse to talk and grow frustrated at my lack of response.

If you ask me, I will not answer. But if I could, I would say; “It is because I need the time to think.” 

Aren’t your final words supposed to be your magnum opus? Each day I have spent pondering what my final sentence shall be, shadowed each day by my end. It has been a fruitless thirty-three years.

Until today.

He’s talking to me. He usually talks to me. He’s good like that. This face is alright to look at, but he’s worn better ones. A few weeks ago, it was a small lady, petite and blonde and with a voice so high that I feared her excited rambling would shatter glass. Some months before that it was an older man with a good beard. That one might be my favourite.

I’m sad he looks so plain today. I would’ve liked it if he looked more my age instead of twenty-something on this occasion.

Of course, I cannot tell him this. Instead, I listen intently to what he says and smile when he says something funny and nod along. 

The first ten years were the worst ones. We both hated each other then. I was terrified of death, of course—I was twenty and was clinging to life with unparalleled fury. He spent days screaming at me in frustration, then tripping me up in the streets, throwing eggs at me between my home and the store. After a while he began instead trying to provoke me, to say such outlandish things that I simply had to retort. But back then I was stubborn, and I wanted to turn at least fifty before he took me away. 

Then, when I turned thirty, we both settled into a routine. It wasn’t good, but it was nearing something pleasant. 

Refusing to communicate for ten years does put a hamper on relationships—at the time I was especially alone. I had some friends, yes, but I was never anyone’s favourite person.

For a few years, back then, my only company was him. And my parents, who would call me so often that after a while I stopped picking up my phone.

For a few years, it was just him and I. He wasn’t as frustrated with me anymore. At that point, I think he was more curious about how long I could drag the silence out. 

Instead of trying to pry words out of me through annoyance, he instead began talking to me like a friend. He came over to my house every once in a while, hands clutching bags of dessert, wily tales on his lips and excitement in every new face he wore. 

We are friends now, I hope.

Thirty years, and I have never once spoken a word to him. And here he is, for another day, to tell me about his day. Isn’t that lovely?

Sure, his kind most certainly thinks of relationships differently than I do. It wouldn’t surprise me if this was truly some long-winded plan to have me speak my final words, and he can finally collect on my soul.

He tells a joke. It’s funny—it’s really funny. I do not laugh, but I grin with my teeth. He doesn’t look disappointed when I don’t make a noise, but instead returns the smile with even more vibrancy. 

I like his hair today. It’s dark and curly, but short and sweet. Usually, he has long hair—locs, curls, or straight. He says he enjoys the feeling of it against his shoulders. I have long since stopped wishing I could speak. But if I were still thirty, I might have entertained the idea of opening my mouth to compliment him. 

But today, I am set. 

I tap him on the wrist, and he stops talking.

“Yes?” He asks. The mocking tone amuses me—he’s challenging me to speak.

Instead, I move my arm to my mouth and tap it once.

“If you’re asking me to shut up, please know that you would have to pay me,” he says, leaning forward only slightly. He places one of his arms on his table, while the other one remains in his lap.

I shake my head and tap again.

“I don’t want to kiss you either.”

He usually has no trouble interpreting my wants. It makes me slightly gleeful that today he misunderstands me twice.

Oh, how I want this to be good. I want him to be so surprised he can’t speak. I want the tables to turn, just for today, just for a minute. I want him to be the speechless one, for just a breath.

I’ve known my words for a few months now. They’re simple, easy. I almost wish I’d been allowed to say them before. 

I open my mouth and tap my lower lip.

He stares at me in confusion, brow furrowed in deep concentration, as though he thinks he might see something mysterious in the back of my throat. Then he sighs and leans back in his seat, defeated. “Sorry, girlie. I don’t understand what you want today.”

“I love you.”

My words are scratchy and quiet. It’s a breeze that comes and goes, only to be heard by me. 

And him. 

Immediately, he straightens, ramrod straight in an instant, staring at me wide-eyed across the table. He is speechless. I am overjoyed.

I smile at him again, cheeks pulling my lips up. My teeth aren’t perfect, and I have never enjoyed smiling so widely, but today is a good day.

When he does not speak, I cannot help but continue.

“Thank you for being with me, these years. I love you. I think I’m done now. I’ve had it good, with you, but I think it’s enough. I’ve caused you enough trouble as it is.”

He stares. Wide-eyed, mouth opening and closing. If he were human I might have moved to his side and asked if he was alright. Not a word comes from his mouth.

Speaking hurts, and I suddenly find I don’t enjoy it that much. If he doesn’t speak now, what can I do but sit silent?

“What?” Is what eventually manages to push past his lips. It’s a helpless little sound, more a puff of air than a word. It makes me smile.

I nod.

“Wait, can you speak again?” He asks, leaning forward across the table to grab my hand. “Please, speak again.”

“I love you,” I say again. My voice is tinny, lacking in power and volume. It is like a thin piece of paper or a single drop in a vast ocean. It is nothing to the world.

It might be everything to him.

He remains quiet for another while, hand slipping out of mine and leaning back in his seat, defeated. He stares at the edge of the table, running a finger across it, before sighing. “Haha,” he starts, raising his head to smile at me. “Man. It sucks that you choose now, of all days, to speak. There’s this new movie I really wanted to go see with you.”

I remember it. He showed me the trailer last year when it first came out on the internet. Some hero-flick. Not my type of movie, but he loves them. I’ve watched a thousand at his side.

“Why not—” I begin, and cough. My throat is dry and aching already. I push through. “We don’t have time for just one movie?” I say, smiling again. My cheeks ache. 

There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes as he ponders, hand on his chin. “Well, I suppose we have time for one movie. But we better do it fast, or else we’ll miss the scene after the credits.” He leans across the table and grabs my tart, shoving it into his mouth and chewing it. “Come on, come on! The movie starts in 10 minutes.”

I give him an exasperated stare, and he laughs.

“Don’t blame me! You always leave here at three pm at the latest. Besides, there are no other showings of this movie!”

There are. I know, because I briefly looked at the tickets last week. I bought some for tomorrow, but I guess they won’t be needed anymore. It’s alright to do it today instead.

He grabs my hand and pulls me from my seat, jumping with excitement. He’s smiling at me, wider than he has in a while, and pulls me into a crushing hug. 

When he pulls back, he’s different. The hair is the same, and so are the eyes. But he’s a bit older, a bit looser with age. He doesn’t look as old as me, but he looks old. His hair is greying at the temples. I smile and run my hands over the white streaks.

“I don’t get why you dye yours,” he says, tugging lightly at my hair as well. “The grey adds to the sex appeal.”

I hit him on the shoulder and laugh, though I make no sound. He beams. 

“Eh, whatever. It’s too late for that now. I’ll have enough grey for the both of us, what do you say?” He shoots me a smile across his shoulder as he turns away from the booth and walks out of the café. 

I follow through the door and come out to stand on the side of the road with him. He smiles at me, then grabs my hand and tugs me away towards the cinema. 

this is one of the most influential mathematicians of the 20th century and he would probably be the biggest blog on this site if he were still alive

ALT

I now disagree with that post that went something like "to make high schoolers laugh post pandemic you have to kill someone" because when I was clocking out of work today I overheard my coworkers, two high school boys, joking around. One said "hey bro...literally me when im making pizza..." He was in fact making a pizza, that's our job. They both laughed like beavis and butthead and repeated it a few times.

Captain Hawthorne from Outer Worlds is easily the best example of how to do a custom player protagonist in gaming, to the point where no matter how you decide to play them they will inevitably be the best character in the game because every single dialogue option is overflowing with personality. There is no way to play them where they don't come across like a complete unhinged lunatic, you just decide where on the vast and varied spectrum of total nutcase it is they occupy.