I am the bone

not a vampire just what it's called

hey kitten. daddy needs to talk to you. your kink blog is great, but you are not highlighting the words correctly. kitten. stop highlighting. this is shit. did you seriously highlight that period. kitten.

trying to get the funny medieval peasants to try my future dorito and accidentally stumbling onto the communal fencepost hosting one of many rural german cat-mutilating games that will later be a wedge in relations between the urban and agricultural communities, shocking me into a months-long silence

getting served what can only be described as "mold from a random log of fallen wood floating in a stein of watered-down beer" as a gift in return for the doritos and getting an experience that can only be described as "Protestant Ayahuasca"

going south to seek some sort of normalcy which I might disrupt, where in the refuge I am served something which dripped from a statue. I ask what it is. it's from the bones inside, I am told, and it leaks forever, and it brings an ecstatic state

The peasants will occasionally hearken back to you, in years to come, as the strange traveler with the unusually melancholic disposition—in reference to your distress at encountering normal everyday things. Only very rarely do they recall your odd bag of fried pasta with what could best be described as a petty-aristocrat amount of seasoning.

If that, honestly.

prevailing complaint: they were not sweet enough

the thing about Revolutionary Girl Utena is that on any day where she doesn't have a duel she is presumably still tearing it up on the b-ball court

supporting his lower back and neck so he can sit up like a newborn baby