I've been telling stories since I was a kid and not always to get out of breaking curfew.
I'm happily married.
I'm old enough to know better, but young enough to do it anyway.


I somehow finally did it.

I broke 300 followers (there are currently 305 of you, to be exact). I’ve done this once or twice in the past, but it’s always dipped back below 300 within a week or two.

Somehow, I’ve convinced all of you nutbars to stick around for at least six weeks. This is weird.

And really cool.

I had wanted to do something really big and awesome once I’d broken 300 followers, but then finances. But last night I realized there is still something I can do! There is, however, a tiny hiccup: most of you probably already have what I’m prepared to give away.

A bit of context: about a year ago, my little sister got really into Dragon Age: Origins. Since the copy she was playing was on my gaming laptop (which is also my writing laptop) and she lives three hours from me, I wasn’t willing to fork over my laptop for as long as it would take her to finish the game. So I bought a copy of the Ultimate Edition on Steam with the full intent of gifting it to her.

Except, when I told her what I’d done, she complained she didn’t have a computer that could run it.

And now she’s purchased the Ultimate Edition for herself for her PS3.


That’s what I have for you! A Steam copy of the Ultimate Edition of Dragon Age: Origins!


  • Current followers only (dudes i know who you are there are so few of you i think i could name you all from memory if i needed to so no cheating on this okay? okay.)
  • One like and one reblog per person. It’ll count as two entries
  • It’s totally cool if you want to win this so you can give it to someone else - once it’s out of my Steam inventory, do whatever you want with it
  • Must be willing to give me your Steam name (which is sort of a given, but don’t worry I’m not social on Steam so I promise not to bug you there)
  • Winner will be randomly selected on Friday, August 1st not long after I drag myself out of bed

sugarkanegames replied to your photo “So, it’s been a year since this little guy wandered into our lives….”

This is just the sweetest thing, it made me teary. <3

It made me teary to write it.

katschy replied to your photo “So, it’s been a year since this little guy wandered into our lives….”

I love good stories like this!! I grew up on a farm and it’s hard for me not to take in every furred or feathered friend that I encounter (I have just a small apt. at the moment). Quark is super-lucky to have you!!

Thank you!  I was reminded that it was a year earlier this week when I rescued one of mom’s neighbor’s dogs.  She’d gotten out and was sitting in the middle of the road.  Literally.  I stopped the car and got out and she walked right up to me.  I was able to figure out where she lived by just knocking on a few doors.  It just reminded me so much of how we found this little guy.  

We’re lucky to have him, too.

So, it’s been a year since this little guy wandered into our lives.  Frankly, he was one of the few good things about this year.  

He consoled us during Tiger’s illness and death.  He seems to know exactly when I’m missing that orange cat’s weight on my chest and crawls into the space the big guy vacated and stares at me with his big brown eyes, telling me not to be sad.

He reminds us that this year, we did save a life.  

He curls up next to us and nudges us with his nose till we scratch his ears.  He won’t let us be sad because he’s so happy.  He has us, and his sisters and cat-brother.  And his sisters dote on him as if he made them feel better, too, after the loss of their doggy-mom a few years back.  As much as he annoys them, they also love him and play with him whenever he demands it (which is a lot).  

I named him Quark because he’s big eared and greedy and the smallest thing in the house.  But he’s got a big heart and a lot of energy.  Missy, the formerly abused BC mix, has for all of her life, been very protective of her food and food dish.   She feels threatened by other animals being near her when she’s eating and acts accordingly.  (Never for humans, though.)  

This guy?  First one she’s ever let steal her food.  Of course, she won’t eat her food after he’s done it.  But it was occurring so quietly, we had no idea it was happening until he gained 6 pounds in two months.  We had to take steps to make sure he didn’t do that any more.  And Missy finally went back to eating normally.

He has his scars.  Mentally.  It took him awhile to see a ride in a car as a fun thing, and not that we were going to leave him somewhere.  He still can’t go to the parking lot near our house without a full-on panic attack that he’s going to be left there again.  He doesn’t stop shaking till we leave and return to our neighborhood.  And is overjoyed when we pull into the driveway.  

He knows where home is.  

in which Maria Hill, Pepper Potts and Natasha Romanoff are BFFs

(via cherith)


            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up with parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

(via syzara)



i’m so sick of well-spoken proper aliens who don’t use contractions and speak in careful measures and are infinitely polite and know the answers to everything, come on y’all where are the foul-mouthed aliens that use hella slang and wear the equivalent of backwards baseball caps and don’t know shit about their own planet let alone earth


(via themintfulmint)