Reality is the disease of sentience
| me, a 16th century swordsman, with a new clay-tempered sword: | *loudly but casually unsheathes it* |
| my friend, clearly peanut butter and jealous: | oh. thats nice. is that c- |
| me: | clay-tempered? yeah. it is. |
lush is fine and they have nice soap but going in there is like a minefield of bohemia like if one of the employees doesnt lunge at me asking me if i wanna sample goat lotion or whatever the shit i end up wheeling into some woman dressed in five blankets and knocking the pot of mud out of her hands onto the floor which causes her to scream at an operatic high c for several minutes
(via bipley)
Drunk history except I get absolutely piss-faced and try to explain the plot of Assassin’s Creed
(via andragoras-in-vanity)
