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cidercipher · 7 years
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Fingers crossed fingers crossed fingers crossed fffffffffuck
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cidercipher · 7 years
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Years ago, many many years ago, when I was still playing Warcraft and The Night’s Watch - our guild - was still something we were proudly fostering, we did a lot of voice chat with our guildies. There was a guy we made friends with. He was English and I don’t remember his name or his character (he was....a warlock? maybe?), but I remember his voice. He was always so friendly and sweet and just an all around nice fellow. Anyway, one day, he told us he’d published a fantasy book and I remember being so thrilled for him and Husband and I had both decided we wanted to read it. We never did (college ate up all our time immediately after that. We turned the guild over to people we trusted and, years later, we poked back in to see it was thriving and well, bigger than we’d dreamed with a cross faction chapter and, last I’d heard, they were trying to span servers) but I think about that guy sometimes and what his book was about. And I hope it sold well and that he’s happy.
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cidercipher · 7 years
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Omg....
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do i love you enough to pay for damages to your door tho
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cidercipher · 7 years
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How would killing me make you feel? Righteous.
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cidercipher · 7 years
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HES SUCH A GOOD BOY
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Just gratuitous Foof.
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cidercipher · 7 years
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honestly, this is the only way I ever achieve any hope of symmetry or sense while doing close up work on ANYTHING
If you go into the ‘view’ drop down and select ‘new,’ you’ll get another copy of what you’re working on. I use this for EVERYTHING because: 
You can flip, rotate, zoom in/out, select portions, whatever and the other window will remain at whatever size/zoom/position you set it to originally. This is great for close up work because you are still able to see what your image looks like on the whole without having to zoom in and out after every stroke. It updates in real time as you work in your ‘work’ window. And for faces? You can see exactly if you’re skewing or if something looks wonky immediately. 
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cidercipher · 7 years
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The trans owned store is actually not good. The details are on a different reblog. But they're taking cheap clothing from elsewhere and marking up their prices, and their binders aren't safe
If you could send me the source or a link to the reblog with the corrected information, I’ll happily reblog that instead. Telling me a thing is wrong without offering the correction and source isn’t wholly helpful, especially for a post that is rather old. I appreciate the correction but would appreciate the material much more.
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cidercipher · 7 years
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(via https://open.spotify.com/track/7KwNvJeLjjfcrggFDqnb2m)
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cidercipher · 7 years
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cidercipher · 7 years
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cidercipher · 7 years
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I want a reimagining of Hamlet that is completely faithful to the original except that Hamlet is replaced with Craig Middlebrooks from Parks and Rec.
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cidercipher · 7 years
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cidercipher · 7 years
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cidercipher · 7 years
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@yooleebird
support trans owned businesses
hey guys! so this online store is run by a nonbinary person of color who’s started a store that doesn’t use any gender labels on their products.
if you use my discount code “flower” you get 20% off your order (it activates august first, and is useable through the entire month of august) and i get $4 for every person who uses my code.
they have really nice tops,
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sweaters,
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 a pride section with everything from shirts, to flags, to rings, to necklaces,
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AND they have a trans section with all kinds of body shapers for both trans male and female individuals.
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and there’s so much more on their website.
also, im a trans male and any money i make by people using my code will go towards starting T.
support a couple trans people and support a store that crushes gender roles! shop here, or even just a quick reblog, it’d help out a lot.💘💘
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cidercipher · 7 years
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warmups warmupswarmups
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cidercipher · 7 years
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truant - a playlist for johnny
[listen here] 
tracklist: 
ode to sleep - twenty one pilots
i’ll tell the moon, take this weapon forged in darkness some see a pen, i see a harpoon i’ll stay awake cause the dark’s not taking prisoners tonight
afraid - the neighbourhood
that makes me anxious, gives me patience, calms me down lets me face this, let me sleep, and when I wake up let me breathe
medicine - daughter
you’ve got a warm heart you’ve got a beautiful brain but it’s disintegrating
two headed boy (neutral milk hotel cover) - the pop he fakes
and i will take you and leave you alone watching spirals of white softly flow over your eyelids and all you did was wait until the point where you let go
the house that dripped blood - the mountain goats
go over every inch of space with the patience of a saint grab your hat get your coat the cellar door is an open throat
dear johnny - poe
johnny dear, don’t be afraid i will keep your secret safe bring me to the blind man who lost you in his house of blue
the club hits of today will be the showtunes of tomorrow - ramshackle glory
my life is chaos and all of my friends are gone but i’ve never been the type to keep in touch with anyone
truce - twenty one pilots 
i will fear the night again  i hope i’m not my only friend  stay alive, stay live for me 
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cidercipher · 7 years
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“I start filling caps with purple, concentrating on its texture, the strange hue, imagining I can actually observe the rapid pulse of it’s bandwidth. These are stupid thoughts, and as if to confirm that sentiment, darkness pushes in on me. Suddenly the slash of light on my hands looks sharp enough to cut me. Real sharp. Move and it will cut me. I do move and guess what? I start to bleed. The laceration isn’t deep but important stuff has been struck, leaking over the table and floor. Lost. I don’t have long. Except I’m not bleeding though I am breathing hard. Real hard. I don’t need to touch my face to know there are now beads of sweat slipping off my forehead, flicking off my eyelids, streaming down the back of my neck. Cold as hands. Hands of the dead. Something terrible is going on here. Going extremely wrong. Get out, I think. I want to get out. But I can’t move. Then as if this were nothing but a grim prelude, shit really starts to happen. There’s that awful taste again, sharp as rust, wrapping around my tongue. Worse, I’m no longer alone. Impossible. Not impossible. This time it’s human. Maybe not. Extremely long finger. A sucking sound too. Sucking on teeth, teeth already torn from the gums. I don’t know how I know this. But it’s already too late, I’ve seen the eyes. The eyes. They have no whites. I haven’t seen this. The way they glisten they glisten red. Then it begins reaching for me, slowly unfolding itself out of its corner, mad meat all of it, but I understand. These eyes are full of blood. Except I’m only looking at shadows and shelves. Of course, I’m alone. And then behind me, the door closes. The rest is in pieces. A scream, a howl, a roar. All’s warping, or splintering. That makes no sense. There’s a terrible banging. The air’s rank with stench. At least that’s not a mystery. I know the source. Boy, do I ever. I’ve shit myself. Pissed myself too. I can’t believe it. Urine soaking into my pants, fecal matter running down the back of my legs, I’m caught in it, must run and hide from it, but I still can’t move. In fact, the more I try to escape, the less I can breathe. The more I try to hold on, the less I can focus. Something’s leaving me. Parts of me. Everything falls apart. Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp. Cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad perhaps irreparable way. Known. Some. Call. Is. Air. Am? Incoherent-yes. Without meaning-I’m afraid not. The shape of a shape of a face dis(as)sembling right before my eyes. What wail embattled break. Like a hawk. Another Maldon or no Maldon at all, on snowy days, or not snowy at all, for beyond the edge of any reasonable awareness. This is what it feels like to be really afraid. Though of course it doesn’t. None of this can truly approach the reality of that fear, there in the midst of all that bedlam, like the sound of a heart or some other unholy blast, desperate & dying, slamming, no banging into the thing wall of my inner ear, paper thin in fact, attempting to shatter inside what had already been shattered long ago. I should be dead. Why am I still here? And as that question appears-concise, in order, properly accented-I see I’m holding onto the tray loaded with all those caps and bottles of black and purple ink. Not only that but I’m already walking as fast as I can through the doorway. The door is open though I did not open it. I stub my toe. I’m falling down the stairs, tripping over myself, hurling the tray in the air, the caps, the ink, all of it, floating now above me, as my hands, independent of anything I might have thought to suggest, reach up to protect my head. Something hisses and slashes out at the back of my neck. It doesn’t matter. Down I go, head first, somersaulting down those eight pretty steep steps, a wild blur, leaving me to passively note the pain spots as they happen: shoulders, hip, elbows, even as I also, at the same time, remain dimly aware of so much ink coming down like a bad rain, splattering around me, everywhere, covering me, even the tray hitting me, though that doesn’t hurt, the caps scattering across the floor, and of course the accompanying racket, telling my boss, telling them all, whoever else was there- What? not that it was over, it wasn’t, not yet. The wind’s knocked out of me. It’s not coming back. Here’s where I die, I think. And it’s true, I’m possessed by the premonition of what will be, what has to be, my inevitable asphyxiation. At least that’s what they see, my boss and crew, as they come running to the back, called there by all that clatter & mess. What they can’t see though is the omen seen in a fall, my fall, as I’m doused in black ink, my hands now completely covered, and see the floor is black, and-have you anticipated this or should I be more explicit?-jet on jet; for a blinding instant I have watched my hand vanish, in fact all of me has vanished, one hell of a disappearing act too, the already foreseen dissolution of the self, lost without contrast, slipping into oblivion, until mid-gasp I catch sight of my reflection in the back of the tray, the ghost in the way: seems I’m not gone, not quite. My face has been splattered with purple, as have my arms, granting contrast, and thus defining me, marking me, and at least for a moment, preserving me. Suddenly I can breathe and with each breath the terror rapidly dissipates. My boss , however, is scared shitless. "Jesus Christ Johnny,” he says. “Are you okay? What happened?” Can’t you see I’ve shit myself, I think to shout. But now I see that I haven’t. Except for the ink blotting my threads, my pants are bone dry. I mumble something about how much my toe hurts. He takes that to mean I’m alright and won’t try to sue him from a wheelchair. Later a patron points out the long bloody scratch on the back of my neck. I’m unable to respond. Now though, I realize what I should of said-in the spirit of the dark; in the spirit of the staircase- “Known some call is air am.” Which is to say- “I am not what I used to be.” “
Johnny Truant (via lordhilord)
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