An Anthropological Analysis of your face

A Pokemon only counts for itself, not its evolution line.

A Pokemon with multiple forms (like Zygarde) will only be counted for the specified form. A Pokemon with multiple appearances (like Spinda, Vivillon, Sylvally, etc.) count for all their appearances.

#Masochist Christians used to just whip themselves not whatever this is

For me, no joke, Madagascar 3: Europe's Most Wanted. It did not even feel like a real movie to me. It made me see red! I was SEETHING with anger and annoyance throughout the entire thing, and I cannot for the life of me articulate why. I saw it once in 2012 when I was 15, I remember almost nothing about it now, but it struck a nerve with me like no other movie ever has before or since.

brain: consider this…………………………………………isolation

me: 

1. mary shelley just forgot that she gave the creature inhuman proportions

2. victor is built like a brick shit house

Maggie bit down on her left sleeve as pain shot electric from her right arm into the rest of her. There may also have been some electricity. That was one of the problems with having a cybernetic arm. The other problem was that it was broken.

The heels of her heavy boots dug into the floor and she buried her face in the crook of her flesh-and-blood elbow to stifle a mortifying cry.

There was a screwdriver being twisted around in her arm. She was justified. This fact did not make it less mortifying.

“Why,” asked Butler, “did you jump out of a building without a parachute?” Butler’s voice was flat as she worked to repair Maggie’s arm. Butler’s voice was usually flat. It was unclear if this was related to being dead. She may well have been equally flat in life, as befit a girl named Butler.

Potentially named. It seemed more likely than its being a title. Memory and identity were all a bit tricky for ghosts.

Maggie sniffled. The leather of her jacket did a poor job absorbing her tears. “I thought it would look cool,” she said. Another shock of pain made her grit her teeth and hide her face again.

The work might have gone faster if Butler had hands instead of hooves. Unfortunately, she had neither. Just an intangible spectral aura. She was settling for hooves because Snoots was the easiest thing for her to possess. When he was not being possessed, Snoots functioned primarily as a bluetooth speaker. Under the circumstances, Butler thought she was doing pretty well.

“I recorded it for you,” Butler said.

“You did?” Maggie asked, her voice thick. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, then reached into her pocket for her phone. She found the most recent video, and played it.

In the video, her hair floated blue around her face. Behind and above her, something exploded. She did not look back at the explosion. The video stopped before her arm caught a cable, before inertia and weight nearly tore her arm in two and made her scream her throat sore.

“That’s rad as hell,” Maggie sobbed, her voice choked. She bit her sleeve again.

“I’m sure Mecha Kaiser was very impressed,” Butler said.

“Chimp,” Maggie corrected.

“What?”

“He’s a chimp now. A cyborg chimp. Cyber Chimp.”

“Oh, no.”

He woke up at 3pm. He had a hangover and an erection. He thought about the hot woman he’d met at the bar. She had ruby lips and a bosom that heaved like a drunk sailor. He smoked 83 cigarettes and thought about his father.

He went to the kitchen and made some toast, because he was a man and didn’t own an oven. It was 5pm by the time he left the house to buy 16 bottles of whisky and some cigarettes. The world was as dark as his soul. No one had ever known pain like his. Not since she’d left him.

Scratching his pendulous testicles, he walked into the kitchen, a cigarette dangling limply from his mouth where he had left it the previous evening. Below his mouth in the usual place was a jawline you could cut glass on, covered with a bristly coating of stubble that you could also cut glass on, or at least scratch it. A whisky glass dangled from his left hand. It was covered in scratches from his rugged stubble. In a pique of rage, he thought about that woman’s breasts again and threw the glass against the wall, where it smashed just like a melon would if you also threw it against something solid, like a wall. He trod on the broken glass to make the pain in his heart real.

In the kitchen, he filled six unwashed milk bottles with black coffee and drank them all in turn. One time, he had accidentally filled them with tar that had congealed in his ashtray, which he had not cleaned out for 12 years. It had tasted less bitter than his normal coffee, which had been the giveaway that he’d made a mistake. He always drank his coffee bitter, because there was no sweetness in his life since she left. That woman, whose name he seldom let slip from his lips, mostly because it had never been quite as important as her curtain of silky blonde hair, the curve of her hips like a small scale replica of a topographical map of Utah, the swelling of her breasts like two geographical globes covered in creamy skin, but not in a skin graft experiment kind of way. Also, sometimes he found himself thinking of her by his mother’s name, and that wasn’t something he was willing to confront on a stomach only half full of whisky.

“My God,” he muttered darkly, and switched on the little desk lamp. “It’s personal.”

Because there, at the bottom of the very back page of the case file, underneath the murder victim’s scrawled phone number and the ruby red press of her last lipstick kiss, beneath Detective Whiskystubble’s extensive intellectual notes about murder and blood spatter and doodles of that cool S, was a clue. Four words, penned in his own hand.

How had he been so stupid? How had he been so blind? Perhaps it was the thick black coffee that he pipetted directly into his tear ducts every hour; perhaps it was the fact that he’d been awake for 89 hours straight and sustained himself only on aged whisky and thoughts of his ex wife and late mother telling him to do his laundry, but nonetheless, he’d missed it.

“It’s personal,” he said again into the swelling darkness of the room; he really had to buy some new bulbs for that damn lamp, and stop chewing on the glass.

Four words: victim was super hot.

And Detective Whiskystubble knew, with the surety that he also knew that his rent was eight months overdue and that he should probably stop trying to smoke cigarettes through his ear canal, that this was a pattern.

The last murder victim, the woman with ample breasts and hair the same colour as his mother’s, had been super hot too. The one before that, the girl who’d had a pair of breasts in the same place on her chest as both his mother and his three most recent ex-wives, had also been super hot. And this one, it seemed, was no exception.