Seriously, why don’t dolphins have hands?
^WIP LEGO model. I’m trying to design it so it’s “drawn” around the wheels, almost like they’re the focus, like my favorite designs. They’re more suggestions then actual wheels, kind of like on a concept sketch. Hope to have it done pretty soon. In other words I have a real car about as much as I have a life, which is not really
So this is Star Trek Into Darkness. The only Russian dude on the whole ship is given a red shirt and sent to work on the nuclear reactor. Love it.
Cafe Verne is dingy, but it bears the air of clearly being a once-cheerful venue. The lady behind the counter washes dishes, and an old man eats soup in a corner. Paris is worried. Its inhabitants bustle about as usual, but nonetheless, there is an unmistakable air of unease and worry in the city, the likes of which has never been before. Similarly, the beautiful sounds of Edith Piaf emanate from the cafe’s corner, but they are made melancholy by the snap and crackle of the record player. I look up, up, out the window and into the murky skies which one could only describe as “British”. An Electroën honks outside in the drizzle, almost impatiently.
The voice of my lover interrupts me from my reverie.
“I’m very worried. I’m afraid of what it’s capable of. If something should happen to me -”
“But it’s a robot. What could it do?”
“There are no limits to its power. It could destroy the Earth.”
I gaze sadly into my coffee. It is tasteless.
Suddenly, we hear yells of fear. We look at each other, jump up from our little chairs and rush out into the street. The Eiffel Tower is gone, replaced by a massive column of smoke. My heart jumps to my throat and forces its way out of my mouth in the form of a scream. The robot has come. Its steps shake the ground for dozens of miles. Steadily, it gets closer to us, wrecking all buildings in its path. It is hundreds of feet tall.
“I’ll always love you.”
Jean clasps my hand in his. We embrace, believing it is the end - but yes, only believing, or I would not be here to tell you.
The machine descends.
What kind of world do we live in, that girls have gotten so good at getting guys off that guys have built an industry of greed, pain and suffering around it, and that guys are so terrible at getting girls off that girls need to buy special machines to do it for them?
I want to buy some vintage sunglasses, with the little round lenses. I’m toying with the idea of taking out the glass and tinting it red. I’m aiming for something comically sinister. I don’t know if I’d have the guts to actually wear them, though :D
Yesterday one of my brother’s friends said “fuck faggots”, and I said “that’s the plan”. I was proud of myself.
“OUTTA THE WAY! GET OUTTA THE WAY!” I yelled at the bystanders, several of whom screamed at the sight of the 1911 I was brandishing. I needn’t have fired two shots into the air to get their attention. As the bystanders split to the sides in panic, I had a vivid recollection of my mother - oh, how she tried! - giving me Bible study, recounting how Moses supposedly divided the Red Sea and led the Israelites away from the Egyptians. In my version of the story, my Israelite was the last .45 bullet in my piece and the end of the waters was the leg of Samuel Wilkins.