Worst day to wear a shirt with fake blood splatter…

Walked into the ER, have been asked if I’ve been stabbed about 5 times now.

Can I just claim the title “The O.F.?”

I see all these complaints that Hiddleston girls aren’t true Loki fans because they don’t read the comics. Because the comics have been around longer than the movies.

I’m just saying. I read Norse mythology. Which has been around longer than the comics.

So, you know, by this logic…I’m a bigger fan than everyone.

Halfway through you just want to stop and pretend that it never happened.

But you persevere. Because it’s terrible, and it’s poorly written, but you’ve worked hard on it, and this is the reality of what you want from life. This is the cycle it has always followed.

For the first hour, you love it.

For the next week or so, you hate it.

A brief resurgence of care as you write the finishing line, which, in your own mind at least, is brilliant.

Loathing as you reread it.

Fear as you share it.

Relief as it is accepted. 

And then the small scratching in the back of your mind as another idea forms. It does not go away, it cannot be shaken.

So you put pencil to paper.

And start all over again. 

It was the reptilian part of his brain that he trusted the most, that small rattlesnake curled and lying dormant in the back of his mind. Waiting to hiss in warning, waiting to strike should the moment require it. Though others would tell him it was instinct he described, the concept appealed to him much more than mere instinct could, for it fed his savagery in a way that instinct no longer appeared to in most men.

Little scraps of nothing.

   There is something more than the gods have shown him. He knows it, feels it, deep down in the dwindling marrows of his brittle bones. Beneath the petty tricks and the genteel magics, something more sinister lurks. He flings the window open wide, grips the ledge and breathes in the dry, summer air. Pain flares as his lungs fill to bursting, but he ignores it; for the moment, it just means that he’s still alive. For the moment, it’s enough. The sun hangs suspended just over the horizon, casting the sky in a golden light that almost flawlessly matches that of the rolling wheat fields below. The only thing that mars the view are the broken bits of statue, stark white marble jutting out of the ground like driftwood after a storm.

Calygreyhound:

 The head of a wildcat, the body of a deer, the claws of an eagle on its forelegs and the hooves of an ox on its hind legs. A creature found in heraldry, used to represent swiftness.

 One of many old mythical creatures that seems designed to cannibalize itself.