SwimOdin

They're sneaky. You've probably had a beer. You know how it is. You can drink beers (plural) and maybe get a buzz, maybe? It's the alternative to liquor, right? Less drunky drunk. Well fuckin'... High gravity beers go down like a regular beer. And you have two, maybe three. And then it's like WHAT. HOW DID I GET HERE? MY FACE, I CAN'T FEEL IT.

Take it to underpants

It's been a stressful year. I have much more white in my beard now. I was furloughed for a little part of the year and experimented in alcoholism. I'm also a grandfather.

Free-to-play Breath of the Wild clone that's pretty good. That's the thread.

I was twenty, now I'm almost fourty.

Untie!

This about not jacking off or nah

I'm so freaked out by that backyard. It looks almost literally the same as mine. Do we live in the same neighborhood?

What have we done

The port was alive with strange faces. It was dawn by the time he found an old salt willing to part with a vessel for what bullion he had left, a cutter with a Bermuda rig called the Merciful, the sails ragged and ripped, its compass cracked, its rotten hull just barely able to cut the breakers. But it would be enough to make his escape. It wasn't for another hour, when he was a mile from the docks, that his thoughts turned back to her, he imagined her alone. By then, she would have searched the house and found it empty. She had suspected it all along, and now she knew, he was a coward. A coward dressed in the uniform of a brave man. Brave enough to cross two oceans and a continent to find her, to fight countless enemies, and yet, in the end he was terrified. Terrified of her. To lie beside her, to be comforted by her as he wept, to show her he was small, for her to know that and touch his cheek and whisper words softly into his ear, all of that was a nightmare. All he knew to do was run. But now, here, he was free. He took a deep breath of the air, tasting the salt on his tongue and closed his eyes, leaning into the spray as the Merciful picked up speed and sailed for the horizon. He was alone and all was well, he did not have her and he did not want her, he had this, and this was enough. Always, he would have the sea.

Little blurry, but a cute shot I got of the grandson the other day

I see him on twitter just about every day. He’s a birder.

Mega Man 2, which is still a top 10 game,

Yeah, this gen launch seems like it’s based on FOMO and nothing else. Except maybe Demon Souls...

Glad it was solid

I’ve got questions; what criteria are we rating our poop on? also, at 38, I have poop more than the rest of you will in your entire lives (excluding kehotick, whom also has Crohn’s)

The most common American birthday is September 9th because fuck at Jesus birthday.

The birthday paradox states that it only takes 23 random people to have a 50% chance to have two of those people share the same birthday. We did it.

Yeah, my wife and daughter always like shopping there

I will be driving through it in two weeks on my way to Hilton Head

Happy birthday @UnDeRwOrlDpRiNcEsS and @InsaneFox

Yes, and I’d be ok, it’s just my right eye that doesn’t work, so the costume should involve an eyepatch

There’s got to be at least a dozen of us

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what’s really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse —The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused—nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear—no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood. Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can’t escape, Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Sad 😞