Hey, I'm Courtney, and this is my crappy blog full of who knows what.

They/them pronouns please.

About Me




*tips chromosomes* m’tosis

this is getting out of hand


tell someone to look and they’ll ignore you. but tell someone not to look and they’ll turn their head faster than it takes a straight white boy to ask for nudes during 21 questions




I tried a 2-D printer once, and the paper jammed.

So now I just painstakingly re-create my paper copies by hand, like a medieval monk.

"I couldn’t do something that requires training and skill on the first try without any training or skill so obviously it is a scam: A White Male Story"



my life became 600% better when i started acting like a self obsessed piece of shit like 10/10 would recommend

even if u don’t actually genuinely love yourself its fuckin fun to act like you think you’re the human embodiment of perfection go on try it life’s too short to not fall in love with yourself


Excellent Manners Wolf goes to his local coffee shop













this made me wonder what happens to like

the players who go godtier in a dead session

because, like, they’re immortal, and with everyone else dead there is no way they CAN die, because suicide is neither heroic nor just, so they will simply continue to reincarnate forever

until they start to go insane from lack of human contact and anomie

and although sburb keeps them from dying, i imagine that there’s some sort of degeneration going on, maybe every time they die they come back slightly wrong in some way, their speech becomes garbled and they slowly start to look less and less human or whatever

and eventually


the only voices left for them to hear are the whispers from the furthest ring

because with all of the time in the universe, even prospit dreamers visit Derse eventually, and as the incipisphere ages the boundaries between universes start to weaken

and it’s so hard not to just give up and accept the invitation, shuck off one’s mortal bonds and leave the session for good, sliding into the many-tentacled embrace of the horrorterrors as your body fully degenerates into madness and lines of code, no longer yourself anymore

just a whisper of what once was but is no longer human.

What if that’s where horrorterrors come from? The mutated god tiers from failed sessions.

ps im crying

This is terrifying



Your name isn’t important. Nothing is anymore. After all, the clouds block out the heavenly light above and below you, leaving nothing but gray and red.

Gray and red and the cacophony of bleeding colors, the torn rags of your friends as they lie cold and lifeless, no more sentient then the ground you kneel upon. Locked forever in time, doomed to be nothing but dolls of the monster that created you all. They will never return to the soil, will never have the dignity of death, as the game that is not a game will not allow it. You never were religious, but you have prayed. Let there be a messiah, two, three, thousands of them. Let there be something, you think every time with hands clasped tightly before ramming another victim’s weapon into your chest.

Each time, you pray a little harder, stay a little shorter. You were a player, but the outfit you have fastened yourself from the clothes of the deceased leaves even you unsure of what kind. Perhaps time, as you can see hundreds of timelines, hundreds of death of hundreds of innocent lives. You sew your rags because after the fifth time you try to release yourself your robes do not regenerate. You sew yourself but the thread is missing and the fabric is missing and your brain is only just beginning to realize the meaning of eternity.

You play with your friends. A flick of their hair here, a halfhearted hand-holding there grows to hugs and empty sobs. A tango for one and a slow degeneration into the madness you welcome.

You lose track of the holes in your robes and in your soul. The tallies blur together. Names and dates and lives fade as the clouds shudder, the ground quaking and Skia itself weeping for the victory you will never see. 

You cannot speak.

You fumble with whatever you can find, play card games that cannot be won against yourself. You try on their clothes and find they fit. You have shrunk. The coding decrees it. You shed your rags and gain new ones. You grow and cycle out the last choices of the dead. You can still hear the screams no matter how much you silently shriek for anything you can repent. Nothing obeys you.

You cannot see.

You thrive on touch and thought, but thought cannot be relied on. Puzzles and riddles have long since ceased to matter, and you wonder if you exist. A living thing reaches into your mind, twists it and molds it and you do not notice. 

You cannot hear. 

You find a sword after seconds and days and millennia of searching and stab the pain away again and again. There is nothing left to touch, nothing to maim, nothing to live for as there was nothing to live for in time long since lost. Your spirit is gone. 

You do not exist.

You are one of many.

You are the Dead Souls that will never truly be free.

Eternity is but a breath in your lifespan, and your dearest wish is death. No one will give it to you.

There is no one left to.

I’m sorry but I need to reblog this again

I’m reblogging this again in honor of 4/13 because it is still my absolute favorite writing I’ve ever done, even nearly a year later.






Raise your hand if you have watched so much British television that is has actually changed your speech patterns.

I’ve not the slightest idea how you’ve come round to that idea.

Exactly. I haven’t the foggiest idea of how you’ve come to that conclusion.

What in the bloody hell are you blabbering on bout you twat?

Behold, people that have never been within 50 feet of anyone even remotely British.







drik gef off the goddnam whatever the fucj that is

My favorite part was when he shouted “I’m looking for Jake”

isn’t this the same dirk that was doing backflips in the lobby the first day?

I think that was the dirk that did a flip over me in the middle of the street….

i think that IS dirk

Well fuck.


nah son, i ain’t got no snapchat. I’m old-fashioned. just fax it to me. fax me the nudes.

11 Signs You're A Men's Rights Activist →




Click Here

Text (would be legible on actual shirt):

  1. You have no problem with the gender wage gap. But you hate having to pay for dates.

  2. You insist that it’s a scientifically proven fact that men are stronger than women. But you complain about society believing that it’s worse for a man to hit a woman than for a woman to hit a man.

  3. You believe that the age of consent is unfair and that there’s nothing wrong with having sex with teenage girls. But when you find out that a teenage girl enjoys sex, you believe she’s the biggest slut in the world.

  4. You hate when a woman automatically assumes that a man is a douchebag before getting to know him. But when you like a woman who likes another man, you assume he’s a douchebag just because he’s not you.

  5. You believe that if women want equality, they should be drafted into the military. But you also believe that the military is not a place for women.

  6. You hate when women assume that men are like wild animals. But you believe that a woman who doesn’t cover up and make herself invisible to men is just like someone wearing a meat suit around wild animals.

  7. You hate the fact that men are bullied for not conforming to their male gender roles. But when you find out that a man disagrees with your beliefs about women’s rights, your immediate response is to try to emasculate him by comparing him to a woman as an insult.

  8. You hate when women assume that there are no nice guys. But you call yourself a nice guy and act like it’s a rare quality that should cause women to be all over you.

  9. You hate when women assume that men just want to get laid. But when you find out that a man is a feminist, you assume that he’s just doing it to get laid.

  10. You hate when women make generalizations about all men. But when a woman calls you out for being sexist, you claim that all men think like you.

  11. You insist that women should be responsible for protecting themselves from being raped. But when they follow the one piece of advice that actually works, which is being aware of red flags, you complain about them assuming that all men are rapists.

This is too fantastic.


If you think instrumental music is stupid you can decrescendo out of my life





You can tell there’s an issue

When there are kids

Who would rather

Go to the hospital

Than go to school.

This cannot be rebloged enough

I wanted my leg to break so I wouldn’t have to play gym

sometimes I look at traffic on my walk to school and think “If I could calculate exactly how I could seriously hurt myself but not die so I could go to hospital instead of school…”



yeah but what if fred weasley became a hogwarts ghost

pulling pranks and flirting with seventh-years and telling an over-exaggerated version of his death to anyone who will listen, haunting slytherin first years and popping up in the boring classes and making faces at the teachers behind their backs

skip a few decades. george weasley dies.

fred’s ghost is never seen again in hogwarts



so in LOTR’s appendices it says that legolas eventually builds a boat and takes gimli across the seas and into the west, the gray havens. you know, the place arwen isn’t allowed to go because she’s in love with a human dude bUT LEGOLAS (AKA ‘YOU LITTLE SHIT’) JUST SAYS “FUCK IT” AND SNEAKS GIMLI INTO THE GODDAMN UNDYING LANDS LIKE CONTRABAND TWIZZLERS INTO A MOVIE THEATER

best literary analysis ever

viwan themes