annechen-melo

Bathtub Bacta

gallusrostromegalus

So… I have a guilty love of the prohibition era. I’dd never want to LIVE then, but int terms of really interesting social dynamics, fashion, art and narrative possibility, its really, really interesting. During the ‘Would-Bacta-work-as-lube?“ question posed by @poplitealqueen a few months ago, I set about scouring-SCOURING, I TELL YOU- Wookieepedia and all my SW-related material to find out what Bacta actually COST, and how it operated, to answer the question of whether it was economically and practically feasible. And I found out that:

1. It apparently makes ideal lube, as long as you don’t mind the smell of Pineapple.

2. It’s basically ultra-thick saline with suspended nutrients and ACTUAL BACTERIA in it.

~~(so, these next couple conclusions are made in the face of conflicting canons, but it’s the one that makes the most sense for how shit plays out)~~

3. Bacta is the GMO reconstruction of Kolto, which is a psuedo-parastic microorganism that may or may not be related to midichlorians that alters it’s DNA to turn into the host’s cells. (~~IDK it’s science fiction, roll with it~~) Kolto was the more effective substance, able to treat things like cirrhosis, brain damage, etc,- but was wiped out by a virus during the KOTOR era as part of a plot to get rid of the Jedi.

~~Good job guys.~~

So Bacta is the GMO they managed to cobble together afterwards with the remaining info they had, and while it’s pretty miraculous as a traumatic injury treatment, it doesn’t do chronic diseases like Kolto did

4. Bacta is literally grown in cultured vats, much the way insulin is farmed today.

5. While it’s heavily regulated in the TPM era, because it’s MEDICAL EQUIPMENT, it’s still really easy to grow once you get your startup costs out of the way.

6. The expensive part of bacta is the administration devices- bacta doesn’t do well in tubes, so you either need to keep a small live colony (a bacta tank ala ESB), or flash-freeze them in the ultra thick saline, and have a small…bacterial microwave, essentially, to thaw bits of it out for use.

7. During the clone wars, Palpatine subsidized the crap out of the bacta industry so he’d have enough for his army and the worlds loyal to him- post 66, he was a punitive asshole who controlled all “legitimate” (but not necessarily well-run) bacta production, and would just not ship it to worlds he didn’t like.

The point I’m getting at is- The conditions are PERFECT for there to be a massive Bootleg Bacta trade starting in TPM and going all through the empire (and into TFA probably, we’ll see what the timeline looks like once this all shakes out) Just thing- ALL the shenanigans people got up to with bootlegging, but with bacta.

People with illicit ‘stills’ in the basement, people doing insane planetary runs to get it to worlds in need- or pirating Imperial ships for the stuff. Kids going to school with an “ice pack” in their lunch bag, only to give the frozen bacta to their Rebel-sympathizing teacher. Imperial Facilities get raided by Bacta Pirates, not for the shitty imperial strain, but literally to pull the piping and saline tanks out of the walls.

Of course, some people are gonna be unscrupulous and cut corners with their vats, resulting in horrible mutant strains that do god knows what (but that’s another plot bunny). Or Strains of bacta that are more refined and effective, because much of the scientific Community was not friends with Sheevy P, even before the war.

AND CLONES WOULD KICK ASS AT BACTA FARMING- because a LOT of bacta farming happened On Kamino, and hell, it was probably part of chores to tend to the tanks. “Feed the vats so your brothers can live”

The HARD part about starting your own farm is
1. finding/making suitable vats
2. GETTING YOUR HANDS ON A GOOD STRAIN.

Kix becomes an unintentional fucktillionaire distributing the Kamino strain. He wasn’t even charging, people just kept giving him money. “Uncle Jesse’s Extra-Viscosity Varmint Grease” is the joke name of the best strain. Kix is SO MAD that drunk Jesse named it that but you know? No imp inspection officer has ever wanted to open those barrels.

The things people pretend to be shipping instead of bacta though, which might actually include booze:

"Booze! Twelve million gallons of Zanbar Blue!“
“Oh that stuff is gross. Carry on.”

Also, the REALLY enterprising people who figure out how to start mixing spice in with their bacta- and create a medical revolution in the process. Glitterstim is a bad idea to snort, but the trace amounts in the “Candy Cane” strain heal nerve damage! "Pineapple express” is a strain that essentially acts as a topical PTSD treatment "Beskar Berserker” is a strain that has some pretty awesome painkiller/amphetamine combo, and while it was meant to keep people from coding, it becomes REALLY popular with former ARC troopers.

Hera gets Kanan a strain called “second sight” after he loses his eyes. She did it because it was supposed to be good for treating optic injuries and numbing visual hallucinations… they find out later it’s basically bacta + Midichlorian chow.

Anyway, this was a fun thought, please feel free to play with it if you want and tell me all about it

noriannbraindripshere

Okay but that sound like how we grow E. coli because this baby love nothing more that adding genome bits to itself and is the less fussy bacteria ever, so looking up how E. coli is grown industrially would give any fic a nice realistic patina!

systlin

“Making furious notes”

twilightofthe

Ok so in the actual Prohibition period there were rum-runners and people responsible for getting the booze from Point A to Point B because not everyone has it at the source and supply and demand is the whole point of transferring it around the galaxy, like to the places where Palpatine denied aid like you said.

That means bacta smuggling is a thing.

Like, large cargo holds worth of it possibly.

I’m just imagining how much of a bitch and a half this stuff would be to transport. Like OP said, if it’s premade stuff you’re dealing with, it’s gotta stay frozen which means you gotta be able to either turn your ship hold into an industrial freezer or have a specially-made ship for it. Regular smugglers looking for credits would probs just go with fiddling with temp controls to keep the stuff frozen, which of course can lead to screwups that end in the unfortunate ship being flooded with sticky yuck (Han’s boots still stick to one patch of floor near the smuggling hatches months after the Incident, and poor Chewie’s fur still smells slightly like pineapple…)

Having a big fancy transport ship to get the bacta places would be almost near-impossible— unless you were, say, royalty and had government backing.

What I’m getting at is, we don’t really know what exactly Alderaan’s “mercy-missions” consisted of. Rebels tells us that one of Bail’s plans to supply the Rebellion with ships by having his mercy ships get conveniently attacked and stolen, oh rats, what a shame. What was on them?

What I’m getting at is, one of the best centers for a bacta startup would probs be in a palace with restricted access.

What I’m getting at is, on top of shadow-funding the rebels for years, Bail and Breha were ABSOLUTELY also bacta-bootleggers and one of Leia’s first jobs for the alliance was running bacta during those “mercy missions”.

Han is beside himself when he discovers later that at one point Leia was better than he was at a smuggling job.

systlin

OH THAT LAST PART TOOK THIS FROM GREAT TO AMAZING

ravensnowmain

I mean Leia was obviously better, do you know how many of Han’s jobs went bad? Dozens! Hundreds! How many of Leia’s ‘mercy missions’ went bad? One! She got caught once! And that was because Vader literally watched her ship get away and did the Star Wars version of jotting down the license plate number.

systlin

“YOU WEREN’T A SMUGGLER PRINCESS THERE IS NO WAY.”

“Han, the best way to smuggle something is if people don’t know that you are a smuggler. So unlike you, I didn’t put ‘smuggler’ on my business cards and didn’t get caught.”

“….NOW WAIT ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE I AM PRETTY SURE YOU DID GET CAUGHT.”

“Once, and even then they didn’t find the merchandise.”

annechen-melo

The two ways to get Solo incandescently angry:

Suggest he was force sensitive
Recognize House Organa as the best smuggling ring in existence

systlin

Bathtub Bacta

gallusrostromegalus

1. It apparently makes ideal lube, as long as you don’t mind the smell of Pineapple.

2. It’s basically ultra-thick saline with suspended nutrients and ACTUAL BACTERIA in it.

~~(so, these next couple conclusions are made in the face of conflicting canons, but it’s the one that makes the most sense for how shit plays out)~~

~~Good job guys.~~

4. Bacta is literally grown in cultured vats, much the way insulin is farmed today.

5. While it’s heavily regulated in the TPM era, because it’s MEDICAL EQUIPMENT, it’s still really easy to grow once you get your startup costs out of the way.

The HARD part about starting your own farm is
1. finding/making suitable vats
2. GETTING YOUR HANDS ON A GOOD STRAIN.

The things people pretend to be shipping instead of bacta though, which might actually include booze:

"Booze! Twelve million gallons of Zanbar Blue!“
“Oh that stuff is gross. Carry on.”

Anyway, this was a fun thought, please feel free to play with it if you want and tell me all about it

noriannbraindripshere

systlin

“Making furious notes”

twilightofthe

That means bacta smuggling is a thing.

Like, large cargo holds worth of it possibly.

Having a big fancy transport ship to get the bacta places would be almost near-impossible— unless you were, say, royalty and had government backing.

What I’m getting at is, one of the best centers for a bacta startup would probs be in a palace with restricted access.

Han is beside himself when he discovers later that at one point Leia was better than he was at a smuggling job.

systlin

OH THAT LAST PART TOOK THIS FROM GREAT TO AMAZING

ravensnowmain

systlin

“YOU WEREN’T A SMUGGLER PRINCESS THERE IS NO WAY.”

“Han, the best way to smuggle something is if people don’t know that you are a smuggler. So unlike you, I didn’t put ‘smuggler’ on my business cards and didn’t get caught.”

“….NOW WAIT ONE DAMN MINUTE HERE I AM PRETTY SURE YOU DID GET CAUGHT.”

“Once, and even then they didn’t find the merchandise.”

lizartgurl

Boom. Lars Twins Headcanons.

Beru is the favorite. For both of them. She is too kind and too patient for it to be any other way
Little Leia has Uncle Owen wrapped around her little finger from day one.
Luke and Leia end up wrestling. A Lot.
Beru tries to stop them but then they become teenagers and she makes them take it outside.
They track more sand into the kitchen that way.
Leia has a HUGE crush on Biggs Darklighter. But of course, Biggs drinks respect women juice so what girl in Tosche Station isn't falling head over heels for him??
Leia will do the normal teenage girl thing of sighing about how terrible it is to be in love and all the fluttery feelings she gets when Biggs smiles and every so often Luke will realize "Oh Geez That's Me."
Thus starts a long and glorious tradition of the Lars twins falling for the same guy at the same time.
At least half of Luke's friends had a crush on Leia at some point during their teenage years.
Leia made her own poncho with Aunt Beru's help. It is her most prized possession and she wears it Everywhere.
Everyone thinks that Leia wouldn't have the space buns because she doesn't do the Alderaani hairstyles but did you see Beru's cute as heck space buns in aotc??? Leia hates brushing her hair but she hates having her hair cut even more. So when Leia was three she got her first space buns. Little Luke was so jealous he wanted some too. Beru often does his hair in little braids.
They've shared a room since they were babies. When they were ten where they insisted they each wanted their own space and so Owen opened up a spare room for Luke.
This lasted for about six months.
The twins have this sort of thing where they always have the same dreams (Owen dismisses it as a twin thing) and they go to each other for comfort long before they go to their aunt and uncle for help.
They start sharing a room again when they were eleven.
And then Luke hit puberty and Beru said they both needed separate rooms from now on.
They'll usually visit in one another's rooms until late at night anyway.
Luke of course is a fantastic shot with the rifle when it comes to womp rats. Leia prefers a small, handheld blaster that she can hide under her poncho. She also carries a vibroblade in each boot.
Both of them are expert pilots, but Leia takes after her father in that she likes to take more risks, which often ends in crashing the T-16.
Luke is the Designated Driver
Leia plays Backseat Driver
Leia thinks sand is coarse, and rough, and irritating and it gets everywhere.
Luke is a daydreamer. He spends long hours on the holonet looking up faraway planets that he wants to visit and he dreams of swimming in the lakes of Naboo.
Luke is much more invested in the Imperial Academy than Leia is because all his friends are going. And again, daydreams. But Leia will do whatever it takes to get off Tatooine. If she gets to stay with her brother, all the better.
Leia originally wanted to do the Young Ambassadors of the Empire program, but Owen told her they don't even have Senators on Tatooine so they wouldn't accept her. She got really upset. That's when she starts looking around and seeing all the injustices of the planet, like the Hutts and slavery and the smugglers and trafficking.
That's when Biggs wrote home and told them the Imperial Academy had so many more paths than just the military, and Leia knows that's how she can get started on helping her home planet, as much as she despises it.
Every so often they'll be doing the rounds on the vaporators at the edge of the ranch, or running errands in town for Aunt Beru and run into Old Ben Kenobi. He doesn't talk much, they know Uncle Owne doesn't like him but they don't know quite why, and he always seems so tired and weighed down by all the problems in the world, but then he sees the two of them and he gives them a smile that's surprisingly reassuring to them both.
Aunt Beru must never know, but Leia can drink any spacer in Tosche Station under the table. When they go to Mos Eisley, she strikes up a bet with a smuggler that if she can out-drink him he'll give them a free ride to Alderaan. Obi-Wan nearly has a heart attack when he sees she's victorious, but the smuggler is blacked out on the table so they go with Old Ben's choice of pilot (they leave the anonymous smuggler with the bill for the drinks, though)
This is also where Han first starts to fall in love with Leia
but of course he must Never Let Her Know because he's a big bad tough smuggler so he's challenging her while they're bartering for a ride and Leia won't let anyone get away with challenging her sense of self worth.
Feel free to add more!

hellenhighwater

There’s become quite a few of these and the blue hellsite’s tag search functionality is garbage, so here: all the #Storytime with Hell posts I can think of:

Bob the Firewizard’s Unwise Pyromaniac Adventures

Revenge Is Best Served Cold

Kitten Little and the Kitchen Murdercat

My Elementary School Nemesis

I Am Not A Lawful Good Character

…and other high school shenanigans

The Stupidest Injury I Can Think Of

The Healing Powers of Throatpunching

Tiny Hellen’s Revenge (and an example of the Scary Voice)

The Shark Story

An Extremely Safe Adventure In Liverpool Cathedral

Mr. Taylor’s Historical History

If there’s any particular topic you would like to hear a story on, let me know, and maybe I’ll have something fitting. No promises, of course, but maybe….

hellenhighwater

I am a moron. I made this post because of the bullwhip story and then immediately forgot to include the bullwhip story.

hellenhighwater

Recent-ish additions:

Senior Survival, Redux

My very church-appropriate nephew

Learn to sheepdog for fun and revenge!

hellenhighwater

Someone remind me to update this in like six hours when I’m off mobile, there’s been quite a few new ones!

hellenhighwater

Thank you for reminding me, anons! Feel free to tell me if I’ve missed any.

The Eldritch Horror in the Taco Bell

Sometimes you just have to destroy an ENTIRE HOUSE

Beware the dickorations

Hell’s Suitors

That time I cut my toe in half, but not …toe-tally off (obvious warnings apply)

Aircraft-carrier parents

Nothing like a barefoot ice race to warm the spirit

(And how I learned how to walk in heels, which …kind fits?)

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

wait how did YOU learn how to walk in heels??

hellenhighwater answered:

Step one: go to a thrift store and buy a battered pair of knee-high boots in your size. They have a blocky heel, tapered to a perfect one-inch square of stomping force. They have seen better days; they are about to see better nights.

Step two: you are thirteen years old and you have just moved to a house in the woods, built on a lot of untouched forest that slopes steeply to a quiet dark river. There are trails cut, tentatively, into the otherwise dense trees, and you have never moved before. You have never lived in a place that you do not know like you know your own hands, like you know your own stride.

Step three: it is two in the morning on a fall night with a full moon, and there is no screen in your window. It’s easy to open, easy to step out, and with the heels of your boots you don’t even have to stretch for the ground under your feet. It’s soft dirt, turned up by the foundation of the house, and the square blocky boot sinks in deeply as you slide out into the night. Your cat, two bright eyes in the dark and white, flashing teeth, leaps out after you, darker than shadow.

Step four: The trails are bright under the moon, bare dirt where the rest of the land is years of accumulated mast. As you start down the hill from the house the momentum carries you and you lean back into your heels like climber’s spikes, stablizing you on the slick clay slope where the river used to run. By the bottom of the hill you are running too, on your toes, because you’re moving too fast to stop. You can either run or fall, and this is how you learn to never, ever, fall.

Step five: At the riverbank the trail turns into shadow under the trees and there’s nothing–you follow the darker-place-in-darkness of a black cat running ahead of you, trusting her night vision when your own fails you. She leads you through the places where the bushes are so close they whip your face, back up the hill until you pass, breathless, where the dark mirror of your brothers’ bedroom windows are shining with reflected moonlight, and you keep going, leaning into the twists and flinging your legs uphill, your heels never touching dirt at all.

Step six: in front of the house the trails are a maze of flat land, weaving over each other to the road. Your cat picks the junctions, switching back and forth in the longest route between you and asphalt. You’re out of breath but your balance is steadying, your stride shifting, and now you run heel-toe, heel-toe, your weight flying on the balls of your feet. Everything is silver and black, you and the cat and the trees, and you know this place now.

Step seven: When you climb back through the window after your cat, there are mosquitoes everywhere. You take off your boots and climb on the furniture to smash them where they’ve gathered in the highest parts of your bedroom.

You realize the next morning that there are perfect one-inch-square spots of mud on your ceiling.

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

How are you not frozen????????? Anything below, like, 60°F is cold and you're just over here like "oh nbd just gonna walk around in the snow barefoot" like HOW?? That is literal frozen water??? Humans are like at least 75% water how are you not frozen?!?!?!?!!?

hellenhighwater answered:

i am warmed by the blaze of my perpetual fury.

and also practice. we used to go winter camping when I was a kid, and a friend and I had barefoot ice races annually throughout high school.

60 is like. tshirt weather.

obeekris

Barefoot ice races???

You worry me sometimes.

hellenhighwater

Yeah, one of my friends in high school had a backyard that backed on to a small private lake–not uncommon in Michigan, because there’s lakes freaking everywhere. Anyways, at some point every winter, after we’d had enough of a freeze that the ice layer on the lake was a good foot thick, her dad would go snowplow a big section of the ice, as well as a path on the ice near the edges of the lake. Then she’d invite a bunch of people over to go skating.

(There’s a big difference, by the way, between skating at a rink and skating on a lake. Lakes are not nearly so smooth. If you’re going barefoot on a lake, you should be careful where you step.)

Usually we’d also build a bonfire in the yard to hang out around. One of the first years we did this, E and I were sitting next to the bonfire. E is six foot seven. I’ve known him since kindergarten, and we have kind of an antagonistic friendship. We’re always giving each other shit. We’d both gotten snowmelt inside our skates, so we had our shoes and socks off and our bare feet propped up by the fire.

At some point, one thing led to another and one of us challenged the other to a footrace. On the lake. And neither of us ever backs down, so we took off with zero hesitation.

Turns out that barefoot ice races are a full-contact sport. E’s got nearly a foot of height on me, so his stride is longer, but I have a lower center of gravity and I’m meaner. We both went down a few times before we made it around the lake and back to the bonfire, and it was so close nobody could tell who’d won.

We agreed to a rematch the next year, and continued every year until that friend sold the house.

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

You cut your toe in half when you were 14? Did your parents... do anything about that? Or about any of the other wild things you apparently got up to? Or are they just as chaotic as you?

hellenhighwater answered:

Look, if some parents are “helicopter parents,” then mine were aircraft carrier parents. They were there for support if we needed it, and we knew we could go to them for help and supplies, but mostly they stayed out of range and let us fight our own battles.

Even when we chose to get in fights with inanimate pointy objects in dark rooms.

I told them what had happened, and they were like, “Hell, that’s really dumb. Boys, stay out of Hellen’s room or we’ll let her go in your rooms.” And obviously that was threat enough.

To be honest, my parents had the dubious blessing of very sturdy children with ridiculous pain tolerances. It seems to be genetic (and it comes with an equally robust liver, which is a nice but inconveniently expensive thing to have when you hit drinking age.) My younger brother once broke his arm sledding and just…didn’t bring it up for three days. Not because he was worried about getting in trouble–my parents tended to regard stupidly-acquired injuries as their own punishment, and they’ve never been the sort to get mad about things–but because he just didn’t think it was that big of a deal.

My own pain threshold was set at age eleven, when a really shitty dentist pulled four of my teeth without properly anesthetizing me first. My face went numb two hours after the teeth came out. There are times when late is better than never, and that was NOT ONE OF THOSE TIMES. Anything less than that experience fell into the category of No Biggie, and it should be noted that even then I did not cry.

Also, relatedly, dentists are my mortal foe. All dentists. Horrible bone stealing bastards.

I swear I had a point…

Oh! Yes. My parents are just as chaotic as I am, but with the chill that comes with age. They fully support the idea that anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger–or at least stranger, which is just as good–and so far I’ve been pretty hard to kill.

My dad has always said that there are those who dance to the beat of a different drum…and then there’s Hellen, who tangoes to the oompah of a different bagpipe.

It’s mostly not an insult.

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

can we please hear the story about how you cut your toe in half???

hellenhighwater answered:

Sure, but heads up: this story is a little bloody, if that wasn’t obvious from the question.

I’ve been collecting various tools of stabability since I was but a wee lass, and around age fourteen I bought a very nice hand-forged katana. I had been saving up for it for ages. At some point shortly after I got it, one of my brothers went in to my room while I was out to see it. This was unwise in a lot of respects–my room has always been Forbidden Territory to the world as a whole. Not because of the ungodly number of weapons stashed in more places than even I can keep track of, but because I do not like People In My Space and I have no qualms doing a murder about it. (Hell can have a little murder, as a treat.)

It might have been fine if “checking out my cool new sword” had been a purely visual inspection, but he heard me coming back, and just dropped it on the floor before he bolted.

I don’t turn lights on on my own room unless I actually need to.

So I came into the room, took about three steps, and on the fourth step my full body weight went onto my left toe. Which was on the upright, exposed blade of the katana.

Luckily, it was very very sharp. It’s always worth it to pay for quality.

I spent a couple minutes trying frantically to get the blood out of my (at the time) pale blue carpet before I remembered that I needed the blood to stop coming out of my foot. I slapped some bandages on there and went back to scrubbing the carpet with hydrogen peroxide. I actually got so distracted that I forgot I still needed to commit a little fratricide over the whole thing.

Once the carpet had been salvaged as much as possible, I tended to the injury properly. For reasons I do not recall I was really not interested in going to the hospital for stitches, so I disinfected it, went “Wow! Look, there’s bones in there!” and then superglued the cut closed and wrapped it up. The toe didn’t fall off so everything turned out fine, probably? This is a story I don’t tell to medical professionals because it looks like it causes them physical pain.

Pros: I got to properly name the katana. I have always believed that unbloodied blades do not get names, and I had bloodied it quite thoroughly.
Cons: I don’t remember what I named the katana. I’m sure it was pretty dumb though, considering that I was fourteen.

I proceeded to leverage that injury with the high school faculty to do some truly miraculous things to my schedule, which I’ve talked about in another post.

(As far as nearly-actually-very-bad injuries go, this was not the worst. I once left a towel to dry on my loft ladder, forgot it was there, and slipped on it on the way down. My leg went through the ladder, caught, and instead of falling down I was falling headfirst towards the floor–and my entire blade collection, which I’d laid out for cleaning. Somehow I managed to get my hands up over my head, hit the ground, and push up hard enough that as I did a forward somersault to get my leg out of the ladder, I also cleared the Blade Zone.

I do not understand how that was possible, because I am in no way cool enough to pull that off. But I did, in defiance of all my universe-mandated Unchill Vibes. I’m sure I’ll eventually fall in a comedically humiliating way in front of a full jury or something to make up for it.)

Anyway, I have a pale, perfectly vertical scar bisecting my left big toe almost all the way from the middle of the nail to the base, and when my foot is really cold (Like, really cold, barefoot footrace on a frozen lake cold) I can feel it down to the bone.

No regrets.

hellenhighwater

Absolutely not

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

What is your sexuality? Because I find you strangely attractive and I'm just. curious.

hellenhighwater answered:

I am Aro/Ace, so you and all my other gentlemen callers are doomed to tragic disappointment.

I like to think that I would have made a hell of a spinster, back in the day.

hellenhighwater

I dated a sample size of exactly three guys before I figured out I was aro/ace, and it was all…god, so platonic. Honestly I don’t know why I didn’t realize sooner. I’m actually still on great terms with all three of them, despite the breakups, probably because again: the most platonic “dating” ever.

Aside from being genuinely excellent people, (I do, apparently, have excellent taste in guys, which seems like a huge waste) all three of them had one thing in common: they all presented me with handmade weapons as courting gifts.

…assuming it still counts as a courting gift if you’re already dating, anyway.

Boyfriend the first was learning to weld, and he made me a giant batarang. It’s more boomerang-sized than the comics draw them, and I’m not sure how good of a throwing weapon it would be, but it’s been sharpened enough to be dangerous. It’s also got a little heart in the center, which was sweet.

Boyfriend Secundus was so amused by one of my irate out-of-shits-to-give rants that he was inspired to weaponsmithing. I’d said something along the lines of having “no fucks left to give! none! None fucks! So few fucks you could tie them together and beat someone with them, as a pair of nonefucks!” He made me a pair of nonefucks, so that if I hit that point of irritation again I could at least hit back.

Boyfriend the third and final gave me a set of switchblades…and Arson, who he’d hand-raised. I think she counts as a weapon, don’t you?

And I’ve learned now that dating is not for me, but if you want to make your case as a potential significant other, just remember: the way to my heart is through the ribcage, ideally with something stabby.

hellenhighwater

hellenhighwater

I had somewhat infrequent contact with the church youth group as a high schooler–I wasn’t a regular attendee, but enough of my friends were that I usually had the lowdown on what was happening. I have a personal policy that I don’t turn down invitations to participate in things unless I have an actual conflict (which is, let me tell you, an interesting, rewarding, and occasionally dangerous way to live your life) so when one of my friends said, “Hey, Hell, the youth group is doing a volunteer project and we need people. You in?” I said sure.

She told me to dress for messy outdoor work, and we’d drive there together on Saturday morning. No other details were provided.

So Saturday morning came, and I found myself standing in jeans, steeltoe boots and a tank top in front of a very, very run-down house with about a dozen other teenagers and a couple adults. The adults had that slightly manic look common to youth group leaders, and matching church t-shirts.

They also had half a dozen sledgehammers.

I had a fantastic feeling about how this day was going to go.

The house, they explained, was condemned. It needed to be demolished.

There were words after that about the who and the what and the why (and, presumably, about why they had decided to recruit a bunch of teenagers to do this In The Name Of Jesus) but I was vibrating at a speed that rendered audio waves impossible to decipher and didn’t catch any of it. Something-something-something-jesus, something-something-something-hit things with sledgehammers, don’t hit the marked support beams, Something-something-something-HELL YOU GET TO WRECK THIS HOUSE was basically all that got through.

They said something that my brain interpreted as “GO!”

I had a sledgehammer in my hand and was swinging through the front door faster than a chipmunk on cocaine. Which was wholly unnecessary; the front door was unlocked. I just wanted to do it.

I plowed a straight line through that house from front door through the back wall just because I could, then doubled back to go for some of the fun tile spots. Around me, a dozen sweaty teenagers were going absolutely feral. The ones with sledgehammers were swinging wildly at anything they could reach, and the ones without were kicking holes in the drywall for no reason and prying apart any surface they could get a grip on.

The adults had cleared out about five minutes in; we were left with our sledgehammers and no inhibitions.

These wholesome christian teens had spent most of their lives being proper and helpful, and now, for what may have been the first time, they were being told to be as destructive as they were capable of being, and it immediately went to their heads. We were a swarm of holy termites. We were sledgehammer-bearing tornadoes. We punched holes in that house until there wasn’t any house left to punch holes in.

Did we take out some of the marked support beams on accident? Absolutely. Was this whole plan deeply, deeply unwise? Sure! But we were having a great time!

The teens with sledgehammers mostly got tired and traded off sooner or later, and a couple of us decided that now was the time to solve some universal mysteries for ourselves, like: can I run straight through a wall if I get a far enough running start? Can I kick a door down like in a movie? If we work together, can we throw John right through that drywall?

The answers to these questions was a shining, reverberating YES.

(John was fine, probably.)

By the time we felt that our work was done, the house was just a few upright studs with a roof on top, sitting in a lake of debris. We straggled out on to the front lawn, dragging our sledgehammers, and watched as the adults hooked chains to the remaining beams. The chains were hooked to the back hitch of someone’s Compensator pickup truck, which was being used for its actual function for probably the first time ever. We watched as the truck pulled away from the curb, the chains going tight–

–and with a sound like breaking toothpicks, the beams broke, and the house pancaked in on itself. We cheered like it was the Second Coming.

I don’t know why they had us do this. I don’t even know whose house it was. I just know that there are few joys purer than the joy of wrecking something bigger than you with nothing but the strength of your own arms, and few euphorias more glorious than the feeling of putting a sledgehammer through a front door for no reason at all.

idonotraisecain

what the fuck was this house built of that it could be taken down with a bunch of sledgehammers

hellenhighwater

If it’s not stone, brick, or concrete, you can probably get through it with a sledgehammer–and even that you could probably make it work if you were determined enough. (For example, cinder block, which is often used in foundations, is totally destroyable with a sledgehammer.)

Modern American houses are mostly built with 2x4/2x6/2x8s, drywall, plastic or wood siding, and insulation. It is not hard to put a sledgehammer through that; frankly, you don’t even really need a sledgehammer. I personally have been able to bare-knuckle punch through drywall since about the age of eight, and a solid kick at the right angle will snap a two by four no problem. Siding is also not hard to break. Houses are built to withstand weather and time, not intentional destruction.

(It is, in fact, a security problem most people never really think about. People will reinforce the crap out of their doors and think nothing about the wall around it. A steel door does you no good if it’s just surrounded by wood.)

There was a time later in high school when my tech teacher had us tearing apart sets after a play, and came across me prying the risers off a staircase using just my fingernails. He stood there and watched, horrified, for a few minutes, and then went, “Hell…we have crowbars…” and I answered, “I know! This is just a lot more satisfying!” and kept ripping the thing to pieces.

Things are a lot more breakable than you probably think they are.

hellenhighwater

I was part of the staff of an anime convention all the way through college. We held our meetings on monday nights, and every monday after the meeting, most of us went to taco bell. We would get our terrible garbage food and sit at the tables and hang out until the wee hours of the morning, and sometimes Pat Rothfuss (who lived nearby) would drop by and blow our little nerdy brains. It was a beloved tradition.

One of our staffers was referred to as the Dapper Man, because he could frequently be found wearing a three-piece suit as he went about his daily business. A button-down and waistcoat was his casual attire, and on truly formal occasions, he would produce a tailcoat, tophat, and monocle. Somehow this worked incredibly well for him. Dapper Man was much lauded for his sartorial choices.

When Halloween rolled around, we held our meeting as usual, but with the addition of a bit of ridiculous cosplay holiday-garb. Since Halloween was not actually on a monday, only a few people were in costume. Dapper Man was.

These were the days before the rubber horse mask phenomenon went mainstream. They had just started to be available. Until Dapper Man arrived as a Formal Thoroughbred, I had never seen one.

He was quite dashing, though, with white gloves, a black tailcoat, and a monocle on his wide, staring, rubber horse-eyes. There was a strange but alarming dignity to the look.

We made it through the meeting with the usual chaos expected of ninety nerds left unsupervised with a twenty-thousand dollar budget, and progressed posthaste to TBell.

The local taco bell had a real problem with keeping staff on–for some reason, drug use was prolific among their employees, and they struggled to find consistent workers. But they knew we would be there every monday, and even though we were a big group we were patent and polite, and they generally liked us. So we rolled into taco bell with our usual aplomb.

We straggled into line and started placing orders, and I watched idly as the employee in back began assembling “tacos.” He was visibly blitzed; if he’d been any higher he might have floated off entirely.

He stuck his gloved hand into the tub of shredded lettuce, drew out a handful, looked up and caught sight of Dapper Man: the Equine Gentleman.

He did a double-take and then froze entirely.

You could see the whites of his eyes all the way around. It was very clear that he had absolutely no ability to comprehend what he was seeing; probably he assumed some sort of genteel victorian old god had come to wreak hoofed vengeance upon his taco-y demesne. Possibly he was just grappling with the possibility of reverse centaurs.

Either way, he had become a lettuce-bearing statue.

Taco production ground to a halt. He stood, trapped by the medusan gaze of Dapper Man’s rubber horse mask, until his manager came to yell at him.

At that point he dropped the lettuce and fled the taco bell.

I can only assume he could hear the sound of dress-shoe shod hoofbeats thundering behind him.

For all I know, he may still be fleeing Dapper Man’s dread fursona. We never saw him at the taco bell again.

hellenhighwater

Look I drank a liter and a half of wine right before I wrote this and the brakes on my vocabulary stop working when I’m tipsy.

It made sense at the time.

hellenhighwater

At some point during the history of my high school, some nameless administrator read Lord of the Flies and experienced a mental glitch. Instead of understanding it as a cautionary tale, they seemed to mistake it for a lesson plan. Yes, they thought to themselves, stranding a bunch of mostly unsupervised teenagers on an island with no outside contact is a great plan.

Thus, Senior Survival was born.

Every year, all the seniors (that’s grade 12, ages 17-18 for you non-Americans) in my high school took a little trip to South Manitou Island, which is basically just a big forested dune in the middle of Lake Michigan, a couple hours by ferry from the mainland. The trip was four days and three nights, and it was a camping trip. Everyone had to bring their own gear, their own tents, and their own food, and then the school would bus us to the ferry port and load us on to a boat out to the island, accompanied by a pair of beleaguered staff members. Once on the island, we would hike a couple miles to the campsites (one for boys and one for girls, each with their own chaperone) and pitch camp. Four days later, we would all line up at the pier to get back on the ferry to go home, and hopefully nothing catastrophic would have happened between those two points.

It is clear that the trip planners at my high school were optimists.

Shockingly, they were also mostly correct. The most notable incident during my older brother’s trip was a student attempting to smoke a banana peel like a cigar (didn’t work); in my year it was the student who boarded the ferry with nothing but a single whole pineapple(it turned out she’d flirted the boys into hauling all her gear); and my younger brother’s year managed to lose a student in the woods for most of a day, but otherwise escaped unscathed.

(My year also chose to drag all our sleeping bags out to sleep on the beach in a very literal pile for the last night, and I woke up the next day with a two inch sand spider in my hair and a trauma that would linger for years. But otherwise we were fine.)

In fact, the trip was so much fun that various configurations of people from my high school have been recreating it after graduation for years. My brothers have both taken their own friend groups back, and I’ve hauled a few buddies out more than once. This year we decided to go all in–both of my brothers and I would take some friends from high school, and we’d take a large party out to the island for maximum nostalgia and shenanigans.

We met up at the ferry port, each with a fifty pound backpack and a can-do attitude. That changed into a can-hide attitude when we recognized our old high school’s buses in the parking lot. We immediately conducted a hasty retreat to a nearby souvenir shop to avoid running into any of our former teachers and having to explain the copious amounts of alcohol we had stuffed into our bags. With masterful stealth and only a little knocking into display racks with our giant backpacks, we boarded the ferry unspotted.

We got a campsite near the beach on the side of the island facing the bay, and the forecast for that weekend predicted northern lights. We pitched camp–three large tents, one for each sibling’s friend groups. My friends and I wowed the boys by making mac and cheese for dinner–they had survived on previous trips by eating nothing but jars of peanut butter and uncooked cup noodles, and this kind of gourmet campfire cuisine was unheard of. We followed this incredible feat by making lemonade in my 64-ounce thermal water bottle, and adding a truly ungodly amount of vodka to the mix. Some whiskey was also produced, and we kicked back and watched the lake for a while.

Things were going well.

And then my younger brother Seth got the bright idea that we needed to go up to Sky Beach to watch the northern lights. The Harbinger of Seth backed him to the hilt, as he usually does.

Now, Sky Beach is just what we call it–it’s actually a dune at the top of the island that overlooks Lake Michigan. The views are spectacular; open water to one side, the whole of the island, including its internal lake, lighthouse, and several old farms, laid out on the other. The route from there to our campsite and back would be a little over ten miles, with a large portion of the hike being up the steep sandy side of the dune.

Seth was adamant: we needed to get to Sky Beach. His bad judgment is apparently genetic, because my other brother and I agreed with him. It would be the best view on the island.

So we secured the campsite–fires out, tents zipped, boots on, flashlights grabbed, and mosquito spray applied.

The first stop between us and sky beach was the water pump–everyone filled up their bottles and we kept going, passing bottles between us, as we rapidly realized that not all of the boys (some of whom had never been camping before) had grabbed theirs. I had mine, of course, and my friends were well equipped as well. The person-to-bottle ratio was roughly two to one. It was a little too far to double back, and we figured it wouldn’t be too much of a problem.

The second stop was the lighthouse. Next, the internal lake, which refracted gorgeous colors in the low evening light. Then the dune where the coastal shipwreck was visible, gloriously eerie in the sunset.

And then things got dark. The sun was down and the trail took a turn away from the coast inwards towards the deeper woods, where even the limited light was gone. Our group staggered onwards, following the paths blindly through the dark.

It occurred to us slowly that there was maybe more staggering going on than could be explained by dark, sandy trails. We collectively had a realization several miles too late: over half the “water bottles” we’d tallied up earlier were full of wonderfully ice cold vodka lemonade. (Mine included, but my friends and I had planned for that, and had water to share between us. But not enough for all the boys.)

This was a problem, as we were now several miles away from the water pump.

We had a choice. We could continue forwards as only idiots would, go to Sky Beach, catch our breath there, and then go back. Or we could turn back then, probably miss the northern lights under the tree cover, and go back to camp.

There were more than half a dozen literal MENSA candidates in our party, with an alphabet’s worth of graduate and postgraduate degrees between us.

We also had enough stubborn belligerence to headbutt a stampeding elephant into submission. There wasn’t a chance in hell we were turning back.

We forged onwards, more and more bedraggled as the miles passed.

I have owned one belt and one belt only since the age of sixteen. It’s black leather with silver pyramid studs, two screwdriver bits, a hex bolt, and a bottle opener in the belt buckle. I wore it my first time on the island, and I was wearing it still this time. By the time we reached the dunes proper, I had taken if off and slung it across my chest like a post-hiking apocalypse bandoleer to better support the half gallon of gloriously frigid vodka I was hauling.

Luckily it got lighter as the miles passed. Mostly because we were drinking it really, really fast.

By the time we reached Sky Beach, we’d found that in addition to the bad-decision genes, my brothers and I had also been granted robust livers. The same could not be said of our friends. They were wasted.

Sky Beach was spectacular, even though the northern lights failed to show. Less spectacular: the small desert’s worth of sand in our shoes, which had already started turning into bleeding blisters. I distributed all the bandaids I had.

It turns out that it’s a lot easier to wrangle drunks when the ground is too sandy for them to run. It’s a lot harder to convince them to get up off the nice soft ground and hike five-plus miles back to camp. You have to bait them with water to get them to do it.

Somehow, my two marginally-less drunk brothers and I managed it, without even losing someone over the edge of the dune or getting lost in the woods. My trusty belt may have been reassigned from vodka-hauling to attach a couple of the more wandering drunks to each other like errant kindergardeners. Nonetheless, we made it back to camp, dehydrated and drunk but otherwise unscathed.

I wish I could say that we learned an important life lesson about taking water instead of alcohol on hikes, but honestly, aside from the blisters, it was a pretty dang good time. We’re not big on life lessons.

We got out some fruit and made popcorn in a kettle over the re-lit campfire. Seth and the Harbinger of Seth were sent on many trips to the water pump in penance for their poor judgment. It was, after all, a deeply unintelligent decision.

My older brother tried to smoke a banana peel like a cigar. It still didn’t work.

hellenhighwater

In my freshman year of high school, we had a new history teacher. His name was Mr. Taylor, and he was ridiculously hot. He was just out of college–this was his first teaching job–and he was one of those people that you look at and think “shouldn’t you be modelling somewhere?” On top of being gorgeous, he was also kind, funny, a great teacher, and a huge Lord of the Rings nerd, and the student body worshiped him.

This was a small, private school, and there were only two sections of freshman World History, and he taught both of them. He constantly complained that one section was ahead of the other. As the year progressed, the gap between the two sections widened–as midterms approached, one section was in the medieval period and the other was still lagging at the end of the Roman empire.

Both sections were meant to sit the same exam, so he couldn’t just move up the midterm and have one class sit it first. He needed to get both classes into the same time period.

So for the week before midterms, he hurried the slower class into the middle ages, and went in to depth with the other. He discussed battles in detail, drew regional maps on the white board, and even diagrammed the lineage of the king of Noldor. The class, of course, took diligent notes and asked questions. Everyone wanted to impress him and did their best to learn the material.

During the last class before the midterm, he reviewed the material he’d taught for most of the term, but didn’t touch on any of the things he’d been teaching for the last week.

Finally, one student asked if any of the stuff he’d been teaching for the last week was going to be on the exam.

“No,” he said, “The contents of the Silmarillion will not be on the exam.”

There was a moment of silence while everyone sat there, confused. Someone eventually went “…what??”

Mr. Taylor grinned. “Yeah, I needed to keep you guys busy while the other class caught up, so for the last week I’ve just been teaching Lord of the Rings history. I can’t believe none of you noticed. You need to pay more attention to geography.”

The class was, unsurprisingly, outraged. Mr. Taylor just laughed.

hellenhighwater

For the record, he knew exactly which kids had already read LotR, and he had us stay after class the week before so he could let us in on the plan. We were all gleeful to help. He chucked a few extra credit questions about LotR on the exam, so all the diligent studying did pay off.

After the initial outrage, everyone did think it was funny. We had a whole bunch of fresh-out-of-college teachers and all of us students were more than willing to participate in shenanigans. And there were many, many shenanigans.

hellenhighwater

Anonymous asked:

Wait are we all ignoring that you apparently threw a shark once? Please tell us more!

hellenhighwater answered:

My family likes to vacation in Topsail, North Carolina, which is a little barrier island mostly covered in vacation homes. We rent a huge house in their off season, when most people consider it too cold to be at the beach, and we, with our icewater blood, consider it quite pleasantly deserted.

I love going for walks at night, especially when there’s a clear sky, so I, age sixteen, would go a few miles up the beach around midnight most nights. One night, while still about a mile from our house, I saw something rolling in the surf.

“That’s either a plastic bag caught on a log,” I thought, “Or a four foot shark.”

I jogged over. It was not a plastic bag caught on a log.

The shark was moving and didn’t appear to be hurt, but was caught in water only an inch or so deep, being pushed higher with every wave. I was by myself, and didn’t own a cell phone, and couldn’t see a house with lights on in either direction. There was nobody around. Leaving to go get help would probably take long enough for him to suffocate. The best thing I could do for this shark, I figured, would be to get him back in the ocean.

I have no idea how he wound up so high on the beach, because it was a very shallow slope. I’d have to carry him a good fifteen or so feet to get him into water deep enough to swim. It was nearly a full moon, so I could sort of see what I was doing. I got a grip on the shark, careful not to squeeze too hard, in case he was hurt, and picked him up. He didn’t like that at all.

I started walking into the water. Here’s a thing I didn’t know about sharks: They’re pretty damn flexible. I got a couple steps with this shark, looked down, and realized there were a hell of a lot of teeth coming directly at my forearm.

It occurred to me that I had not thought this through very well.

I’m not proud of what I did. It seemed like the best way to get this shark back in deep enough water and avoid dropping thirty pounds of very bitey animal directly on my own toes. So.

I yote the shark with as much force as I could muster.

He curved through the air like a thing of beauty, all angry and toothsome in the moonlight, and splashed wonderfully into the deeper waters. I caught a glimpse of fin diving away shortly after.

And that’s the last I saw of him.

queereldritchgalaxyprincess

my name Hellen,
i walk the sand,
i lift the shark
stuk on the land.
before the teeth
can find their mark,
i thro the fish,
i yote the shark.

hellenhighwater

im fuckin weeping

hellenhighwater

These days, my older brother Jake is a calm, competent professional. He’s skilled at his job, and so laid-back and reserved that it actually used to intimidate his students when he TA’d classes. That’s now. Back when he was a little kid, he was scared of everything.

Bugs. Balloons. The vacuum cleaner. Basically any loud noise. The dark. Dogs. The basement.

As I child, I feared neither god nor death, and so it was my job to protect my big brother from all the minutiae of life that he found terrifying.

Being afraid of the basement was a real problem, because his bedroom was in the basement. I used to have to go downstairs every night and turn on all the lights before he would come downstairs. Once I’d done that he was fine.

At least he was fine up until he thought it would be fun to spend an afternoon building a spooky fort in his walk-in closet and tell scary stories in it. The four of us huddled in the dark closet-fort with a flashlight and Jake cooked up the scariest story he could: that our house was actually built on top of an old burial ground, and there were horrible undead monsters under the floors, trying to claw their way up. This was a very scary story indeed, and my younger brother and sister were terrified. I was old enough to remember when the house had been built, however, and therefore knew for a fact that the story was untrue.

Jake, despite also having been there when the house was built, and having made up the story himself, was terrified.

He spent the next week insisting that I not only turn on all the lights for him before bed, but also check all the closets and make sure that there were no sounds coming from the floor under his bed. Which I did, dutifully, every night.

And then came the day that he punched me in the face and broke the lens out of my glasses.

Now, we roughoused a lot. Scraped knees and elbows were absolutely the norm, and mostly that was fine. But an outright punch to the face? Heinous. Unforgivable. Deserving of the direst revenge my seven-year-old brain could concoct.

“Mom and Dad are gonna kill you when they find out you broke my glasses,” I told him, and quietly slid my foot over the fallen lens where it rested in the front lawn. “You better find that lens or you’re gonna be in trouble until you die.”

Jake, who already knew that he’d crossed a line, went pale and immediately began scrabbling through the grass for the lost lens. I waited long enough for him to turn away before lifted my foot, pocketed the lens, and went inside to sit on the couch and watch him freak out.

He spent a good hour looking for the lens before he went inside and realized I’d already fixed my glasses.

I had spent that hour in my most natural state: scheming.

So when night fell, I did my usual basement sweep. I turned on all the lights, loudly opened and closed the closet doors, and then returned upstairs to give Jake the all-clear. “It’s fine,” I told him, “Only….”

“WHAT,” Jake demanded, thoroughly terrified of monsters entirely of his own making, and not at all afraid of the only thing in the house worth fearing, which was, of course, me. (Our ancient and malevolent demoncat, Kitten Little, was also worth fearing, but that is a story for another time.) At age seven, I had never heard of the concept of ‘excessive force.’ I had also never heard of the concept of ‘psychological warfare,’ but that was hardly going to stop me from using it. Jake demanded, “What was down there?? What did you see?”

“Oh, nothing. But maybe…I thought I saw eyes? Glowing eyes? Under your bed.”

“GLOWING EYES UNDER MY BED??”

“Probably it was just Kitten Little. Goodnight!”

I bounced upstairs to my room in the attic of the house. The ceiling was plastered with glowy stars, and I flopped down in my bunkbed and watched them idly while I waited for the rest of the house to settle down to sleep. One by one, lights turned off across the house, and soon the only noise was the creaking of the old oak tree outside my window.

I reached up and removed one of the jumbo-sized stars from my ceiling. There was a wad of sticky tack on the back. Quietly, I slipped into the bathroom, turned on the lights, and carefully drew two eye-shapes on the star, as large as would fit. Using the pair of scissors I’d stashed in a drawer earlier, I cut the shapes out of the heavy plastic star. Then I used the sticky tack to attach one to each of the lenses of my freshly-repaired glasses.

And then I snuck down to the basement, and army-crawled under Jake’s bed.

Now, I’d been patient. It was well after midnight; everyone else was deeply asleep. That was about to change.

I set my nails against the underside of Jake’s bed and dragged them loudly. I pushed up with my legs just enough to shift the bed a little. I could hear him starting to wake up, so quietly, using a deep, grating growl I’d spent all afternoon practicing, (and which, later in life, would scare our class bully so badly he fell backwards out of a hay wagon) I moaned, “JAAAAAAAAAAAKE.”

Slowly, visibly terrified, Jake lowered his head over the edge of the of the bed.

I whipped my head sideways and shoved my legs against the wall as hard as I could, launching my glowing-eyed face towards him like a snake.

Jake shrieked.

Something thumped overhead as everyone in the bedrooms upstairs woke up all at once. I knew I had about sixty seconds of getaway time while Jake cowered under his blankets. I crawled out the door, making sure to move as oddly as possible in case he could see me, and darted into one of the unfinished storage rooms down the hall. I waited until I had heard both parents go into Jake’s room before I sipped out and quietly returned to my room.

Jake insisted on sleeping in my parent’s bedroom for the next month.

At the opposite end of the house, I slept peacefully every night.

On the ceiling over my head, carefully attached with sticky-tack, were two glowing eyes.

hellenhighwater

As a point of reference, here is a picture of Jake and I from roughly this age. I had been trying to get a photo of the flower crown I made, and he had been running in front of the camera waving his arms. I stopped him from doing that.

And before you get too sympathetic to poor Jake, it’s worth noting that less than two years later, he instilled in me a permanent fear of heights. I may have been devious, but Jake held his own just fine. Occasionally by shoving me over the edge of a cliff.

To all of you who are saying it makes sense that I grew up to be a lawyer: Jake is also a lawyer. We travel in packs.

mam spaczone poczucie humoru

See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

mam spaczone poczucie humoru

Bathtub Bacta

Bathtub Bacta

Boom. Lars Twins Headcanons.