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It's about escapism. It's about surviving despite it all. It's about the wonder of the world even in darkness. It's about mimes beating the shit out of you.

Danny decided to give him at least a portion of leeway. You know, to see if he's holding up to his word.

But this, this is not it.

He dragged Vlad out of the room, shooting out an excuse that he just needed Vlad's help with something and just wanted to talk for a bit. Then brought him down to his level-via pulling on his collar- with a scowl.

"You trade my mother for that thing!?"

The thing in question, was some British guy by the name of John Constantine. Who smelled like smoke, alcohol and genuinely seemed to be questioning how exactly he ended up in this situation.

Vlad, to Danny's displeasure and increasing horror.

Is smitten.

Why did it seem that when Vlad turned good his intelligence just seemed to take a nosedive. Enough so that he settled for that and he is happy he isn't going after his mom but, like.

C'mon dude.

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PLEASE REBLOG THIS SO IT CAN LEAVE PALAEOBLR. I NEED PEOPLE WHO DON'T RECOGNIZE THESE ANIMALS ON SIGHT TO VOTE.

I apologize to all of y'all with vision impairments for whom this poll is inaccessible. Alas, this is an experiment, and I cannot name the taxa. Thank you.

For techno fans who don't know, Gamers Outreach is a charity that empowers hospitalized children through video games. They provide specialised gaming equipment to children stuck in hospital, brightening their days and providing relief from boredom, monotony, and pain through play.

A Death that need not fight against you, that will often fight for you, because why not? It will gather you home eventually. Why not enjoy you first?

A Death that treasures those who fight it most ardently. That loves healers and defenders and survivalists and necromancers and mad scientists and immortal gods. That lets them pour everything they are into fighting it, denying it, adoring every desperate scrap of strength and will and brilliance and raw determination poured out against it. That catches you when your strength is done and all your will and brilliance run out, that gathers you close beneath a warm, dark cloak, and whispers well done, oh child, you were magnificent, well done.

A Death who will not seek to hasten an inevitable end, who will chastise those who seek to hasten it for others in Death’s stead, who will slowly and patiently plot and sow and siphon away from the great monsters of the world. Because who are they to hasten Death’s domain, who are they to deny Death its time and its place, who are they to cut short these vital glories that illuminate it so? Who are they to presume upon its will, that is so much larger and so much longer than theirs?

Who are they to call, and presume that Death, of all beings, should obey?

A Death that is not a hunter but a gatherer, who is always and eternal, who loves you, and can afford to wait. A Death who will fight for you and defend you, who will place its hand upon those who would speed you to its embrace, who has no need to rush you, only to greet you when you call.

A Death who is kind.

And patient.

And, before all and above all,

There’s an entirely unnecessary animated opening exposition dump. There’s a lion cub who says “experience emotional vulnerability”. There’s a squirrel with a vengeance arc. 

And then Michael Sheen shows up looking like this. 

I am 22 minutes into this movie. 

Have you ever wanted to see acclaimed award-winning actor Robert Downey Junior huck a CGI parrot voiced by acclaimed award-winning actor Emma Thompson into the sea? 

(The parrot is fine. She can fly.)

As long as he doesn’t start singing a love song to a seal, you have to be ahead of the Rex Harrison version. (I love everything about that version EXCEPT THAT GODDAMN SCENE.)

There are some movies that are just bad, and some that are so bad that they’re good, but it is really rare to come across a movie that is so incomprehensibly strange that it transcends labels like “good” and “bad”. It’s like a weird cartoon made for children by people who maybe have never met a child, or by like, behavioral psychologists in the 1970s when you could get away with telling kids some real weird hippie shit that’s way too heavy to give an eight year old.