OH GOD I STEPPED ON IT

Song of the Week

Frog D8

there's a dead frog right by my feet. At least, I think it's dead..and a frog. It looks all shriveled and not moving from here but I'm too creeped out to get close enough to make sure. It's kind of freaking me out

These made me so happy

Off set pictures taken during filming

Best essay ever written

http://forum.bodybuilding.com/showthread.php?t=107785821

Here we go again

My South Park obsession is being put on hold at the moment. Meaning, no, I don't think it's over yet BUT (there's always a but) I've had to move it aside for my new obsession....I'm not sorry to admit that yes... I'm obsessed with Lord of the Flies. I rewatched the '63 version, falling in love with Ralph all over again~

I dare you to tell me James Aubrey wasn't the most adorable 13 year old on the planet

and I found a website with a bunch of backstage pictures that made me much too happy for it to be healthy. Then I somehow managed to stumble onto a blog written by two fangirls 4 years ago. That made me laugh harder than I ever have.

Needless to say, I have a feeling this one won't stick long but I'll hold on to it as long as I can. I'm trying so hard not to start my own personal fandom. It's literally tearing me apart but I'm afraid that would take me away from the meaning of the book which was the reason I became so addicted in the first place.

That and Digby's closet aspiration for becoming a male model

Continued~

The handle to his door began to jiggle. Rather subtle at first but as the party on the other side were becoming aware that it was not going to turn, it began to shake much more violently. There became an outcry as and the damned people, of whom he wished would leave him to his peace, began pounding savagely on his door. They were blubbering out cries and lamentations but he was much too complacent to hear any of it.

There was a warmth in the room. It was a kind he had only felt once before but under severely different circumstances. He had felt petrified, confused, and completely alone. He felt he was breathing his very last few breathes. That’s all it has ever meant to him since.

Until now; this very moment. He was still scared, as he expected to be, he was still morbidly confused, and he was still alone. But, more than anything, he was content.

The pounding and the cries slowly merged with the pounding of his own heart, restless in his ears, as the warmth became greater. The beautiful smell was starting to become much too overpowering and he could feel himself losing touch with his senses. Until, all he could do was inhale one more time before slipping into sweet darkness.

The fastidious smell of smoke coursing through his every limb.

February 12th, 1943

The ambrosial scent was tempting; he thought it almost sinful. But he thought this in a fog; a subtle and distant thought that dissipated almost as quickly as it had come. Not that he had anything of significant importance to think about in its stead.
He wouldn’t let himself alone in his mind. It was too dark and the images of carnage played down his spine like a chain, bringing his stomach back up without his consent. After a few 6 months of pure retching, he found that you grow tired. Tired of yourself, mostly.
He let out a soft chuckle. The thought of being tired of oneself was a feeling he’d welcome gratefully. It seemed to give him a dreadfully bitter amusement and an esoteric semblance of contempt; warping his senses and, at times, rendering him physically numb.
He could never tire of himself, you see, for he was not himself. Not anymore.

He listened to the ruffling of a far-off petticoat; wondering aimlessly if it was Margret, the new cleaning hire. She was always getting herself lost and he found no other reason for the help to be weaseling about the top floor at such an hour. At least, not yet.
He waited, listening to the brief shuffle of feet and hushed voices as they carried off down the corridor, disappearing altogether at where he measured to be the stairway. Another moment passed. Silence. Delicious silence. The air of bittersweetness he came to adore. He craved these sacred moments of solitude nearly as ravenously as he feared them.
He sank back onto the finely woven silk linens, feeling off-handedly vainglorious for lying on newly refreshed sheets in his day clothes, but waved it off for lack of emotional sentiment.
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I haven't written in a while. I thought I might as well try starting something. Even if it makes next to no sense overall. It's suppose to be 1940 but it sounds so 1800s.
I find this language much more fulfilling than the modernized English colloquials we've become oh so fond of. It sounds slightly forced but I'll try to care later.
This is talking about Ralph, by the way....

Song of the Week