Happy Father’s Day to everyone except clay puppington dr secondopinionson and Karl latchkey.
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i am begging on my hands and knees for jon matteson and bryce charles to sing a song together. since i first watched npmd, every single day without fail i have thought about their harmonies together in hatchet town (“if he gets me next i could be three” and “fits the bill, he fits the bill”) literally the sickest harmonies in the entire show, i turn into a little gremlin every time i hear them. their voices sound SO good together it actually makes me a little ill. my favourite song my favourite line my favourite harmonies, their voices blend perfectly and i am so desperate to hear them sing a duet to hear them singing together again pls pls please pls pls pls. pls.
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football is not about winning games or trophies it’s about hating chelsea
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Midnight Sky Blues
sometimes, instead of a person,
instead of a being made of flesh and viscera,
I feel like a speck of a speck
gazing outwards like my entire tiny existence
is behind the glass dome of a planetarium.
I hop up on the observation floor and peer out
note down all that I can see with my 'scope
sometimes it's a telescope, sometimes a microscope
sometimes I can't tell the difference.
I observe all that goes on out there
and then I hop off the scope,
and I pace. and I ponder.
and I think and I postulate
but mostly I just....gaze up and out.
sometimes the glass above me
might as well not exist, because sometimes
I see great burning balls of fire
and I worry about the flames raining down here
other times I peer at a planet and see
a lush green and dinosaur party favors,
a kind of bliss I've only ever been able to see
from here.
and I'm viscerally aware that the glass
works in the most spitefully impartial way.
sometimes I want to smash the glass above me
break out of this scientific cave of misery
float up to those planets I see and join in...
but stubborn and cold logic pipes up
points out the risk of falling glass,
how shortsighted and bloody it could all end up,
and even if I break the glass I have no plan
to rise through the stratosphere
nor any plan to survive the vacuum of space
and on and on it goes,
long after I've already dropped the subject.
even when I send communications out
they're as polite as can be.
I'm aware that telegrams and Morse code
work best when the messages are short
I still find myself sidestepping any desperate language
even if it is the shortest.
I don't want anyone to worry too much.
I'm safe behind this glass I reside behind.
I'm bored and I'm lonely and I want to fly
but I never tap out any messages asking for help,
only pictures and descriptions of what they see of me.
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