Hi, I'm Brigid. I'm 14 and a junior in high school. I'm not that good at describing myself.

If you want anything tagged, just shoot me a message and I'd be more than happy to oblige.

 

erlynntheemerald:

image

So I’m sure you recognize this as one of the epic moments from “The Prince of Egypt” where we see the super majestic whale as they cross through the Red Sea. However I noticed just one little issue: whale tales don’t move from side to side, they move up and down. And then it hit me, that’s not a whale. That’s not a whale. It’s a motherfucking SHARK. A BIG ASS MEGALODONIAN SHARK. WAITING IN THE WATER TO EAT THE PHARAOH’S SOLDIERS. Goddamn, Dreamworks.

wintasoldier:

DEADPOOL USING CRAYOLAS TO DRAW HIMSELF DEFEATING THE BAD GUY

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DEADPOOL USING CRAYOLAS TO DRAW HIMSELF DEFEATING THE BAD GUY

bioterrors:

an angel girl who’s girlfriend is a demon and at first they don’t want anybody to know but then god is like “my child do not worry about it it’s , as the kids are saying these days, “what ever”’ but satan is like “do I know this girl. let me meet her. is she a bad influence?” “dad she’s an angel” “damn I was really hoping she would be a bad influence”

(Source: leafwhirlwind)

edens-blog:

beben-eleben:

Jim Dingilian proves that a creative and skillful artist can create works of art with just about anything. By coating the interior of empty glass bottles with black smoke and then carefully brushing it away with tools mounted on dowels, he creates detailed and beautiful but dark works of smoke art that are dripping with a sense of suburban decay (via Bored Panda).

are you shitting me

terracnight asked
Fishy head

cla-ray:

terracnight:

cla-ray:

terracnight:

cla-ray:

"I know exactly where to hit this bitch where it hurts," Brigid thinks, as because of the rules of silent treatment she can’t say her thoughts aloud. "I’m going to hit her AT THe SOuRCe!!!!" Quick as a douchebag when he’s trying to park his SUV in the krogers parking lot and there’s no spaces left and there’s another car coming to the spot (aka rly flipping fast ( I call this douchebag Mach 3)), Brigid flies to cla-ray.tumblr.com/ask. In it she types the two words she thinks, nay, she knows will cause a change of tide in this stupid passive-aggressive tumblwar. FISHY. HEAD. Grinning, she sits back, victorious. Those childhood taunts will surely break Clare down back into the sniveling wimp she actually is. But wait, what’s this? Could it be? ‘Ive made a foolish mistake.’ Brigid thinks. By using the ask box in Clare’s own blog, brigid has given her the most important weapon in her mega-awesome arsenal. She has given her…unlimited character spaces. There is no stopping her flame-tongued rhetoric from delivering the sweetest, most illest comeback ever…a fourth wall breaking soliloquy describing Brigid and Clare’s actions in the third person, aimed at satiring the struggle of wits between the siblings. A struggle which is incredibly Shakespearean at its core. Now there is no hope. Only words strung together to form seething, passive aggressive remarks. The war wages on. (End act 4)

I have to admit I did laugh. BUT THAT DOESNT MEAN IM NOT STILL UPSET *mutters* why the fuck is she a writing minor grrr… Fuckin fishy head laughing up a storm on the couch.

Softened after reading Clare’s incredibly awesome and quick witted words, Brigids heart is softened. Perhaps the war will not be an eternal battle waged far into the future when both parties undoubtedly have these frickin cool cyborg arms and legs and are fighting off aliens. Man that’ll be rad. It’d be an atrocity for the two to remain mad at each other then. They’d make such a cool part robot team. “Wait no. No that cannot be,” Brigid reminds herself. “The insolence of my sister will not be allowed.” Just as snitches get stitches, sisters get plot-twisters. Brigid just has to figure out how to do it… “Ahhah lightbulb!” Brigid knows. First, she clicks that little reblog arrow symbol thing that kinda looks like a yin yang but with sticks instead of a circle. Then she types her carefully calculated response. It’s a backhanded compliment! Like a charizard, she uses burn! Whatever Clare shall do now is obsolete. She has made it clear with the words, “I am still mad”; a small phrase with the potential to speak novel-sized emotions. (End act 5)

Clare laughs as she rereads her work, occasionally saying phrase out loud. “”Like a Charizard, she uses Burn!” I wrote that!” She laughs from her position.
"She doesn’t even like Pokemon that much," I think to myself. She continues talking to me as I write this, complaining about how I never made her third reply "reblog-able".
"You know, for scrapbooking," she laughs.
"I know. I can play along in her game. I’ve been meaning to practice my writing. What better way?" I watch as she resumes scrolling through the tumblr app on her phone.
I think to myself, “She may have won this battle, but the war… The war shall be mine.”

"Bullshit" Clare thinks, "I’m getting tired, but knowing Brigid, we are evenly matched. Her eyes are getting droopy as well." It feels as if it’s been fifteen years since this fight began, and the motivations are becoming nothing but ethereal remembrances. There is nothing. The war has become hollow. It’s as if both sister have become immortal rage filled zombie knights, hacking away relentlessly, but haphazardly at each other’s psychological chinks in their armor. This mustn’t go on.
——-this is a break)——-
Brigid smiles weakly in her brown armchair, watching that one minecraft streamer playing some game on her iPad. He remembers fondly the times she and her sister spent watching the progress of the dubbed cute face, as Clare never bothered to learn his actual identity. When will this end? As amusing as it’s been, Brigid can feel the weight of words and time and boredom sinking at her shoulders, sighing under invisible stress. She secretly laments the overreaction towards Sweatfish. She’d actually stopped the silent treatment after about twenty minutes, but was too stubborn to call a ceasefire. So it wasn’t like there was anything fastening her directly to the clash. Nothing but scaered feelings long healed from humorous third person banter and stale offense taken from a lovingly harsh nickname. Alas, there is little she can do now. The war has taken hold of the land, choking it itself into battle, becoming a sentient machine bent on destruction and repetition. In her heart of heart, Brigid knows. She knows the only way to defeat the war. The unspeakable. Forgiveness. (End act 6)

Clare tries to end the fighting, but Brigid is too stubborn to have her pride wounded. “It’s just a name!” She cries from the couch.
"Fishy head was just a name, but it still bothers you when said the right way." Brigid takes a deep breath. She plans on waiting until Clare changes her name to something other than Sweatfish. Until then, no direct contact will happen between the two. Clare’s says something about cinnamon rolls and tomorrow. This catches Brigid’s attention, but she is not so easily bought. This battle will wage until the name has been changed.

terracnight asked
Fishy head

cla-ray:

terracnight:

cla-ray:

"I know exactly where to hit this bitch where it hurts," Brigid thinks, as because of the rules of silent treatment she can’t say her thoughts aloud. "I’m going to hit her AT THe SOuRCe!!!!" Quick as a douchebag when he’s trying to park his SUV in the krogers parking lot and there’s no spaces left and there’s another car coming to the spot (aka rly flipping fast ( I call this douchebag Mach 3)), Brigid flies to cla-ray.tumblr.com/ask. In it she types the two words she thinks, nay, she knows will cause a change of tide in this stupid passive-aggressive tumblwar. FISHY. HEAD. Grinning, she sits back, victorious. Those childhood taunts will surely break Clare down back into the sniveling wimp she actually is. But wait, what’s this? Could it be? ‘Ive made a foolish mistake.’ Brigid thinks. By using the ask box in Clare’s own blog, brigid has given her the most important weapon in her mega-awesome arsenal. She has given her…unlimited character spaces. There is no stopping her flame-tongued rhetoric from delivering the sweetest, most illest comeback ever…a fourth wall breaking soliloquy describing Brigid and Clare’s actions in the third person, aimed at satiring the struggle of wits between the siblings. A struggle which is incredibly Shakespearean at its core. Now there is no hope. Only words strung together to form seething, passive aggressive remarks. The war wages on. (End act 4)

I have to admit I did laugh. BUT THAT DOESNT MEAN IM NOT STILL UPSET *mutters* why the fuck is she a writing minor grrr… Fuckin fishy head laughing up a storm on the couch.

Softened after reading Clare’s incredibly awesome and quick witted words, Brigids heart is softened. Perhaps the war will not be an eternal battle waged far into the future when both parties undoubtedly have these frickin cool cyborg arms and legs and are fighting off aliens. Man that’ll be rad. It’d be an atrocity for the two to remain mad at each other then. They’d make such a cool part robot team. “Wait no. No that cannot be,” Brigid reminds herself. “The insolence of my sister will not be allowed.” Just as snitches get stitches, sisters get plot-twisters. Brigid just has to figure out how to do it… “Ahhah lightbulb!” Brigid knows. First, she clicks that little reblog arrow symbol thing that kinda looks like a yin yang but with sticks instead of a circle. Then she types her carefully calculated response. It’s a backhanded compliment! Like a charizard, she uses burn! Whatever Clare shall do now is obsolete. She has made it clear with the words, “I am still mad”; a small phrase with the potential to speak novel-sized emotions. (End act 5)

Clare laughs as she rereads her work, occasionally saying phrase out loud. “”Like a Charizard, she uses Burn!” I wrote that!” She laughs from her position.
"She doesn’t even like Pokemon that much," I think to myself. She continues talking to me as I write this, complaining about how I never made her third reply "reblog-able".
"You know, for scrapbooking," she laughs.
"I know. I can play along in her game. I’ve been meaning to practice my writing. What better way?" I watch as she resumes scrolling through the tumblr app on her phone.
I think to myself, “She may have won this battle, but the war… The war shall be mine.”