Hey everypony!

Sorry it's been all quiet on the wasteland. I've finished finals and I'm currently taking care of IRL stuff at the moment, which takes precedence. I've prepared a short little thing that may or may not answer some questions and I'll probably post that next week so that you guys have something to think about while I'm getting shit sorted. It's been a long month, and it might take a bit to get things done. I'm probably about 20% through chapter 20 at the moment, and after that the story's going on hold until me and my editors go through the ENTIRE STORY to make it all nice and sparkly- especially the first few chapters where I had no idea what was happening. Things will change, and I'll make sure to add a chapter marker thing that will list major changes (Or you could go back and re-read everything!)

If you're wondering about the Don't Starve story, it'll be updated after I finish chapter 20 of Memories while everything's being edited. I've sort of ironed out a plot and I'm hoping that the update in 2 days doesn't wreck it. Keeping up with a game is hard.

In other news, Steam trading cards! Woo! Yay! Free money. Well, it was until they added more people a few days ago. My TF2 backpack has grown to 20 pages and I even bought 2 more backpack expanders because they're ONLY ONE DOLLAR RIGHT NOW!

Anyway, until next time!

P.S.- Frosty tells me she's getting a lot of weird questions on her Tumblr. You know who you are. Staaahp.

Okay, just in case that I don't get anything written in the following month and a bit, I've got something prepared just in case to upload in a few weeks to keep all of you in check. I'll be sure to notify you when I've gotten through all the crap of real life and back to writing.

There's also a good chance that Don't Starve might be getting an update soon, since the game is actually 'done' at the moment. Again, will notify.

Here's the message, by the way.

Until next time!

So here's everything in a nice neat list...

Good News:

-Chapter is nearly done

-Almost done with Lego Rock Raiders

-Over my annoyance and depression period

-Chapter release within the week, maybe Wednesday night/Thursday morning

Bad News

-Chapter managed to hit 140% done somehow. Hm.

-Finals are coming. Writing will slow to a crawl.

That's probably about it. I'm waiting for the TF2 update appearing next Wednesday, most likely, so I'm going to be playing World of Tanks out of sheer boredom and procrastination. (I'll be FrostyWinds).

Here's the most important part though: Chapter 19 got a bit out of hoof, and I want to know whether you guys want a two-parter or just one massive dump.

Until next time!

I wanna point out that Ore Refinery Level 3 is op as heck.

Anyway, the story is about 65-70% done, and judging by what I may or may not add, might turn into another two-parter.

Until next time!

I NEED TO GO GET SOME ENERGY CRYSTALS, BRB

Well, here's the thing I came up with. It's 4 in the morning right now and I'm too tired to do anything else. I had to tone it down a bit, since this IS graded, after all. Have fun reading.

Bryant Ching

English 71

4/16/13

Prof. Schragg

A Clever and Witty Title

“I’m tellin’ ya, Markus, there’s no way I’m going to pull this off without your pollen coupon!” I begged the large Swedish man standing in front of me. “C’mon, I’m in the seat in two hours! Help me out, man!”

Before I get ahead of myself, lemme explain. I’m one of the few engineers that helps maintain the Machine of Death. Maybe you’ve heard of it? If ya haven’t, basically it takes your blood, turns it into a buncha numbers, and somehow by those it’ll give ya a card with how ya die on it. Problem is, we kinda messed up a little bit. It’ll tell you how ya die, alright, but the Machine has a twisted sense of humor. It said someone would die from cancer, once. The poor sucker died from getting hit by a crab truck. Yeah.

Not sayin’ the Machine is defective or anything, of course. It usually works like a dream, but that’s not the point. What people don’t know is that the engineers behind the scenes- all ten of us- had to come up with nearly every single possible type of death. Not pleasant.

And then there’s guys like Markus. They’re the last few guys that keeps the Machine working. In case the Machine wasn’t completely right, Markus and his coworkers would make sure the Machine was right.

Now, the next part is kinda weird to explain. Since all the hard work is all done, and since we’re contractually obligated to never leave the company, the higher-ups decided to keep us busy with the ‘Card Games’. Every week, we mash a random string of 65536 numbers into the root program and it gives each of us a method of death. Another machine that we’ve dubbed ‘The Black Market’ spits out ‘coupons’ for three to five objects and a time period that we’ve gotta include.

The point of the game is to kill your target. Whomever crafts the best murder or ‘accident’ gets a bonus or sometimes one day of paid leave, if the boss is being generous. We’re free to exchange coupons and stuff as we see fit, as long as we don’t exchange methods of death.

I’d pulled a very interesting death card that I was having a very difficult time with. That also brings me back to my current predicament.

“No.” Markus flatly told me.

“C’mon, man! I’ll give you my Keg of Wine coupon and I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow!”

The large man had to think about it. “Dice coupon, and I pick.”

“Fine, within reason!” I blurted, very scared that he’d try to make me buy him lunch at the four-star restaurant a few blocks away.

“Machiavelli’s.” Damn. He did pick it.

“You know I can’t afford it.” I groaned. “How about Coal’s Coffee for a week?”

Markus thought about think about it too. “Two week.”

“Week and a half. That’s reasonable.”

Finally, Markus handed over the coupon. “Bring double latte, extra chocolate syrup.”

“Ugh, fine. “ I snatched the Pound of Pollen coupon from him and gave him my Handful of Dice coupon.

Next, I needed to get rid of this Five Heads of Cabbage coupon, because it was completely ridiculous. I dashed down the row of cubicles and across the hall to a small office and politely hammered on the door.

“Come in.”

I poked my head in the room. “Hey Ky, want a Five Heads of Cabbage coupon?”

My supervisor, known colloquially as Ky (We don’t know her name. We assume it’s short for Katie or something), looked up from her laptop. She adjusted her bright red glasses while brushing her beautifully blond hair out of her eyes and opened a drawer to retrieve something. She fanned out her assortment of coupons in her hand and inspected them.

“Want a Sleeping Bag? Or how about a Fire Starter?”  She suggested, showing the two coupons in question to me.

I wouldn’t say no to a fair trade. “I’ll take the sleeping bag!” I darted inside and snatched the coupons out of her hand. I was halfway to the door before I realized I’d taken two coupons instead of one. “Whoops, sorry!” I did my best to toss the Fire Starter coupon back at Ky, but I didn’t stick around to see where it landed.

“Don’t get stabbed!” She jokingly warned me.

“I’ll try!” I called back, nearly back to the cube farm where my office was.

Now all I had to do was put together all my coupons together in one big mess that would get me that bonus. Apartments didn’t pay for themselves, ya’know. I spread out my collection of five coupons on my desk and stared at them. The American Revolution. I had a sleeping bag. I had a pound of pollen, a keg of wine, and a shoe box. What the heck was I going to do?

“Oh dude, you have a shoe box? I need that!”

“Tom, I don’t need anything you have. We’ve been through this.” Don’t make eye contact and maybe he’ll just leave.

“I’ll give you a Gold Bar Coupon and a Cookie Coupon for it.”

Begrudgingly, I took the deal. “Fine, fine. Gimme those coupons.” Two for one was always a good deal, I guess.

Now, what would I do with this? I stared at the small business card sized prediction that the Machine had given me. Of all the possible things, it just had to be that one. Maybe I just needed a nap.

******

“Achoo!”  The red-coated British officer pulled out a small embroidered handkerchief and wiped his nose with it. “Curse these large rolling plains!” He sneezed again, and nearly screamed in annoyance. “To be home once again!”

Beside him, a much more extravagantly dressed red-coated British officer approached him on horseback. “Lieutenant, I expect your mind and sinuses are clear? I’m going to need your tactical genius for the next battle with these cowardly colonists.”

The Lieutenant hastily saluted, shoving his damp handkerchief into one of his many pockets.  “Of course, Brigadier!”  He fumbled among his belongings that his manservant was keeping watch on. Dutifully, his manservant set up a small folding table as he found his map of the area. “Our scouts ran into resistance here-” The Lieutenant said, pointing at a grove of trees on the map. “-Here, and here” He pointed at two more locations along the country road they were on.

“An ambush, then?” The Brigadier asked.

“Probably” The Lieutenant sneezed again. “Curse this god-awful air!”

Dismissively, the Brigadier waved his hand. “Gather the Third Artillery Company and have them advance with the Seventh and Ninth platoons in the morning. We’ll just have to bomb their little ambush into submission. What say you, Lieutenant?”

“Seems like a great idea, sir.” The table was packed and the map rolled up very quickly.

The night was fast approaching. Hundreds of men were already setting up camp and other living necessities, such as a bar, as evidenced by the drunken singing coming from somewhere. The Brigadier wandered off after issuing his orders to go yell at a pair of soldiers who were obviously not working on digging latrines like they were supposed to.

The Lieutenant and his trusty manservant searched for where the bar tent had been pitched this time. Knowing how the Quartermaster operated, he’d be distributing and selling drinks. Exactly what the Lieutenant needed, given his seasonal allergies.

“Make way for the Lef’tenant!” Someone shouted the second the Lieutenant walked into the bar tent. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, soldiers moved out of the way for him. The only kind of respect he got, he thought to himself as someone accidentally splashed some ale onto his sleeve.

A large old bearded man with his uniform already unbuttoned greeted the Lieutenant warmly. “Welcome to Midas’s Touch, sir! What can I fetch for you?” The bar itself was simply a wooden contraption pained a gaudy bright golden yellow propped up on whatever happened to be on hand.

“I’ve got half a mind for some burgundy, Quartermaster.”

“A very good choice! Good thing I requisitioned more for your fancy spoiled pansy bums.”  The Quartermaster rolled out a large keg from under a canvas tarp. “Can I interest you in the entire cask?”

That got a smirk out of the Lieutenant. “Just a few glasses, I’m afraid.” He dropped a small column of shillings on the gold-colored table surface. “Try selling to the Major General.”

“I’m a right old nutty bastard, but I’m not that mad!” The Quartermaster chuckled. He carefully picked up one of the few polished wineglasses behind the bar and filled it by pouring directly out of the cask.

The Lieutenant swirled the sanguine-colored liquid around in its glass. “What do you have in the way of nibbles?” He asked, relishing the taste of the wine as much as he could.

“Hardtack?” The Quartermaster held up a very dense-looking distasteful brick.

Lord knew how much of that stuff every British soldier had eaten on the boat over to the colonies. “Anything proper? Crumpets, perhaps?”

“Ah, I’ve got just the thing. The chef baked something right interesting. It’s like a biscuit, but not really.”  The Quartermaster opened a crate and pulled out a small round biscuit-like object. “The boys are calling them the Cookie’s mistake. Extra sugar in ‘em and whatnot.”

The Lieutenant stared at it. “What’s in it?”

“Pumpkins, I think? Some of those newfangled chocolate things? Here, one free of charge.”

Worst case scenario, the latrines would get visited very soon by the Lieutenant. He threw caution to the wind and took a bite. It was a bit burnt, strangely flavored with spices (Which had probably been stolen from some officer’s personal stash) and sweet. Not bad, the Lieutenant thought to himself.

“It’s interesting.” The Lieutenant mumbled, washing down the pastry with another mouthful of wine. “Not bad.”

A few glasses of wine later, plus a lot of socializing and a lot more pence spent, the Lieutenant retired to his tent. There was not much for him to do, other than last minute organizing of troops and checking in with his various Sergeants to make sure things were prepared for the morning.

The Lieutenant took off his jacket, his tall officer’s hat, his sword belt, his pants, and carefully draped them over the chest that held the rest of the belongings that he had brought with him. He unrolled his sleeping bag and slid himself inside, hoping for a good night’s sleep and not too severe of a hangover.

Cannon fire and screaming caused the Lieutenant to abruptly wake up. Something was wrong! He shrugged off the slight pounding in his head and took a swig of slightly old ale from a bottle on the ground. On went the pants, jacket, sword and hat.

“Sir! The rebels are attacking from the southwest!”  A soldier yelled at him, reloading a musket.

“Reorganize! Make firing lines! Get those cannoneers on a hill!” The Lieutenant shouted, looking for a higher ranking officer.

The first order of business, besides dodging musket fire, was to locate as much of his platoon as possible. Lacking that, a single company would have to do. The cowardly colonists were hiding in the trees and taking potshots at the British camp, except for their one cannon that was in the middle of the field.

“Lef’tenant! Over here!” Excellent, most of second company was still alive and mostly in uniform. Thanks to their regimental training, they were already lined up and ready to fire.

The Lieutenant located the nearest clustering of colonials in the trees. He drew his sword and pointed it at them. “First rank! Ready!” Rifles raised to shoulders. “Aim!”  The first row of soldiers performed final adjustments. “Fire!” Ten rifles fired all at once, the smoke obscuring everyone’s vision for a moment. The first row of soldiers reloaded their muskets as the second row prepared to fire. “Second rank! Ready! Aim! Fire!” Ten more rifles fired. Someone fell out of a tree, and another colonist dropped to the ground, dead.

“Incoming cannonball!”  The cannonball fired from the treacherous colonist’s single cannon flew wide, wrecking a tent and the wagon behind it.

“They fire without aim nor skill!” It sounded like the Major General had regained control of the situation for the moment. “Destroy them and show them the wrath of the King!”

A scattered cries of “For the King!” and “Down with the rebels!” went up from everywhere.

The Lieutenant ordered his single company to fire at the offending cannon. The first salvo of shots were ineffective, as all it did was delay the cannon team from reloading while they took cover behind their cannon. The second salvo managed to kill the loader, but not fast enough to prevent him from doing his job.

Slowly, the cannon turned to point at the Lieutenant’s company. “Fire!” He shouted, hoping that someone would finish off the last two members of the cannon team.

Too late, the cannon fired. Everyone ducked and scattered, trying to escape the path of the heavy iron ball. Once again, the cannon didn’t hit anything but another tent. The Lieutenant stood up and yelled his entire squad back into formation.

What the Lieutenant didn’t notice was about half a tent careening at him at high speed, freed by the cannonball and launched by rope tension right at his back. One of the tent’s spikes impaled itself in his back. As he laid in the dirt and chaos in battle, he imagined the letter his family would receive in two months.

Dear Mrs. Larkness,

We regret to inform you that your husband, Lieutenant Huey Larkness, was slain in an ambush on the morning of the 23rd of March, 1778. We are obligated to inform you that, in a moment of poor timing, your husband was slain by a standard issue tent spike in the midst of combat…

******

I stopped daydreaming and sat up. I stared at the coupons on the desk in front of me, wiping a bit of drool off the Cookie coupon. Maybe… “Nah, that’ll never work.” And with that, I decided to peruse some other idea. Maybe if someone here had a Fish Hook coupon…

EDIT: OH SHIT I FORGOT TO CHANGE THE TITLE BEFORE I TURNED IT IN

As for the obligatory story update, it's looking about 25% done. With 6 weeks left in the semester, I'm more worried about getting shit done and studied for before finals. We'll see how everything goes from there. \

That brings me to the topic at hoof: I need a little help. I'm supposed to write a 3k word long story for my English Creative Writing class, and I decided that writing something deep, dark, insightful, and moody is a bit too much. Instead, I'm going to write something with all of your help! I pulled some inspiration from the book "Machine of Death" and its card game variant "Machine of Death: The Game" and decided to write something silly, with your help of course.

I need three or more of the following sent to me from you in a private message. Try to make them as unrelated as possible to make it more interesting!

-Any method of death.

-Location/Setting.

-An object.

-An object.

-An object.

I would appreciate it if you guys could throw me some great ideas! Anything will do, just try not to keep it in the MLP universe. Not sure if my professor's a brony or not, and I'm really not going to risk it if I can. The faster you can send these to me, the faster I can get writing. I promise I'll post the result as its own blog!

Until next time!

Very recently, one of the Don't Starve updates introduced a key feature: Custom World Generation. This being said, and being the idiot I am, I decided "What happens if I turn all of it up?" Turns out, 'More' is not the max. The threshold is actually set at 'Lots'. At first, I thought this was really cool. Then I realized what I'd just created.

Don't Starve just became Don't Die.

For those of you that own the game, here's how to play LOTS mode (Or Don't Die).

Food: Make everything Lots.

World: Set Rain and Lightning to Lots. Set Day to Night Only.

Animals: Make everything Lots.

Monsters: Make everything Lots.

Resources: Make everything Lots.

Good luck trying to get past day 2.

Until next time! (Not a whole lot is getting written, sorry.)

Well, it's been one whole year. 23 chapters, 225 likes (11 haters, but whatever) , and 29,110 reads later, I'm still here. I never really expected to get this far and this successful, considering the fact that there's a LOT of Fallout Equestria stories out here. I mean, I started this story last year after spending two months reading Fallout Equestria, FoE Project Horizons, FoE Pink Eyes, and FoE Heroes. Made me depressed for weeks, Project Horizons did. After that, I realized "Yeah, fuck it. I'm going to write a pseudo-comedy and it'll be great." That's where it all started. Frosty's basic character came from a long, much more convoluted train of thought in attempting to incorporate the 'Mysterious Stranger' perk (whom we now know as Ice Storm). Gala Frosty was originally intended to be the conscience, but then I decided that the conscience character was a tiny bit too cliche, so I gave Frosty a few. Thought I might mix it up. Most of the other characters are based on friends and family, or suggested by. The genius that brought you Rusty Parts and Broken Parts also came up with the merchant of death Sleazy McCheapkins, Easy Greasy, Burnt Toast, and many more characters that I couldn't have possibly come up with.

Many of you may have also noticed a few references to things. Truthfully, I don't remember most of them. I've tried to stay out of the really mainstream memes, but I think one slipped out at one point. (I used to be an adven- *passes out*) Thanks to the help of one Tonto the Trotter, I got in touch with Tofu (Writer of FoE: Outlaw) and we managed to create a mid-story pseudo crossover moment. Last I checked, Frosty popped up one more time in one of the more recent chapters. I also called out Heroes, which is currently one of my faves, although very briefly since the 'universes' don't exactly line up enough.

Most of you also probably wonder "why the balls does it take this guy so long to write stuff?" That's because I have stuff to procrastinate on and work to do (which I am currently procrastinating on) nearly all the time, and when I'm not, I'm too tired to think or write. Additionally, there are a few portions of the story that I had originally planned, but I never got them in or I decided to throw them out simply because I didn't find it nearly interesting enough. Here's one, just for reference. I threw this together from the outline that I originally wrote for this, and it's un-edited. Don't complain too much if you see grammar errors.

By TheBobulator

Chapter 18.73 - 19.23: Why’s this canceled again?

“Because I said so. Shut up.”

Note to future self, never let Violet take watch ever again. I had a pounding headache, thanks to the club-shaped bruise on the back of my head. As I rose to my hooves, I noticed that somepony had stripped me of my power armor. On further inspection, once I regained my senses, I noticed I had been imprisoned in a dark, dingy, and dirty cell devoid of everything but a bucket for a toilet.

My mouth felt like the last time I’d eaten a week-old pie. “Ugh...” I coughed. “What happened?”

I was having a hard time moving my body, especially my head. When I looked down at myself, the unwelcome addition to my outfit became abundantly clear. At some point, most likely when I was passed out, somepony had attached a large black collar around my neck. Even my best tries tugging at the restraining band with my claw proved fruitless.

“Lookie lookie! Looks like somepony’s finally up.” A no-good dirty slaver strode up to my cell door and dragged his baton along the bars, creating an incessant clanging sound that only aggravated my aching head.

If looks could kill, he was ugly enough to slaughter an entire platoon. “Five more minutes, sarge.” I muttered, covering my ears and sliding to the floor once more.

I heard the door clatter open and the slaver walk in. “Lemme see that pretty face.” His dirty, grimy hooves grabbed me by the collar and raised me up to the blinding light of the single lightbulb in the room. “Aww man. Bad news, guys! We’re only half right.”

The slaver was holding me up and appeared to be comparing me to a piece of paper. I cracked an eye open to take a look at it, and by the mirrored image on the other side of the paper, it was a wanted poster. It was hard to tell, but it looked like an Enclave wanted poster of a grinning pegasus. He looked familiar, somehow.

“You think they’ll still pay for her?”

Another voice. “Nah. They won’t give squat.”

“She’ll still get a good price at the market. Somepony’s going want her.” I was roughly tossed back to the floor. “Last case scenario, at least she’ll be a fun toy.” The slaver that was holding me up a moment ago laughed as he exited the cell with the poster.

What were my options? Escape, die, or slavery, of course. There was no way those last two were going to happen. “Shit, shit shit.” I muttered to myself.

“Bucket’s right there if ya need it.” Droned a very sad, unenthusiastic colt.

I looked around, eventually getting a good look at the speaker peeking through the bars across from me. He looked dejected and unkempt, his light blue coat showing signs of wear and abuse. Not much of his black mane or tail remained, for some reason or another.

Very awkwardly, I sat up and waved my claw at him in what I hoped was a friendly enough gesture. “Hi.”

“Save it. You probably won’t be here long.” He mournfully told me. “You’re lucky you’re a pegasus.” Speaking of which, I tried to flap my wings and failed miserably. “Yes, they tied your wings. As much as you wish, they’re not that stupid.”

“Darn.” I tugged at the heavy rope tied around my midsection. I could saw away at it with my talons, but that was about it. “And what’s so special about me being a pegasus?”

The colt rolled his eyes. “You’ll get sold faster, duh.” He didn’t even have a cutie mark yet.

“I don’t plan on getting that far.” I determinedly grumbled, slicing at the rope. “Any way out?”

A pebble bounced off my head. “If I knew I wouldn’t be here, now would I?” Of course. Nice stupid questions, Frosty. What would Rumcake do? WAIT. SHIT.

“I was with some Steel Rangers before I got ambushed. Did you see them come in with me?” I asked, frightened by the possibilities. “Brown coat, pink mane?”

He shook his head. “No.” My heart sank a bit, but I held onto the hope that Rumcake and the other Rangers were fine.

While I was at it, information was nice too. “What about the guards?”

“Shotguns and stun batons. Total bullshit.”

I could work with that. “Excellent.”

“Why?”

I dragged myself to the bars facing the hallway that the slaver had left through. “Hey asswipe! When’s lunch? I’m bucking starving!”

Hurried hoofsteps and jingling of armor became audible. “Bitch, we’ll feed you when it’s time.” The slaver yelled. “Shut up!”

“But I’m huuuuungry! I haven’t had breakfast yet!” Not really a lie. “You’re obligated to feed me at least!” I loudly whined through the bars.

The same slaver as before showed up, slightly out of breath. “Shut it, bitch!”

“Make me.” I smugly shot back, edging back into my cage slightly.

The shotgun barrel that I was expecting poked through the bars to point at my face. “How’s this for encouragement? Now shut up and get back in your box.”

Now that he was pushed against the bars to force his battle saddle mounted shotgun into the bars, he was dangerously unbalanced and exposed. That’s what I was counting on, of course. I was actually hoping he would come in and try to stun me, but this was just as good.

Even more conveniently, Raider Frosty decided she wanted a bit of exercise. “Pop goes the weasel.” She chuckled, darting forward and seizing the slaver by the throat. Seconds later, blood painted the walls, floor, and bars after she’d swiftly sliced his neck clean open. Begrudgingly, she let me have control back since I was trying to get us not killed.

This was also one of the moments I was thankful for my claw.“C’mere, key.” I reached as far as I could and hooked the edge of the keyring on the tip of my talon.

I got the key and fumbled with it for a moment before finally fitting it into the lock and opening the door. Once mine was open, I started to fiddle with the lock on the colt’s door. Power in numbers, as they say.

To my surprise, however, he immediately told me to stop. “Don’t bother. Even if you break me out, there’s nowhere we can go. We’re still trapped in a slaver camp.”

I growled in frustration. “Buck you, you’re getting out like it or not.” Against his wishes, I kept struggling with the lock. Fifth time was the charm, and the door sprang open.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll just stay here. The hay isn’t too moldy for once.”

Even if I was trying to do the right thing, I really wanted to punch him. “Well, suit yourself.” I grabbed the rest of the slaver’s gear, weapons and all.

*Cue dramatic, drawn out stealth scene, followed by EXPLOOOSIIONNS and daring escape*

Yeah, that's one of them. There could have been amazing things done here, but I really didn't think about it. What ended up taking its place, however, was the really awesome 'take me to your leader' moment (That Frosty attempted to use once before) with the whole shotgun-claw to the face. Heck, even the slavers got cut out in the end thanks to Kydure, whose sidelong comment of "So what, they're orks?" turned into a defining factor.

For those of you who have followed me since the beginning, or maybe if you're new here, I don't care. Each and every one of you that reads my story makes me feel like I've accomplished something for once, and people like it. (It also means I need a job, but that's irrelevant.) A few of you stand out-you know who you are- and give yourselves a cookie. Without all of you, I probably would have stopped writing this months ago if I hadn't gotten such a surprising review in the beginning. Thanks to my editors for putting up with my catastrophic grammar and plot-holage, and thanks to Kkat for creating this wonderful universe for us in the first place.

It's been a great year (considering), and I'll see you next year when this is maybe finally done.

Until next time! Turrah.

WHAT DO I DO