I know I probably don't have to write these every time delays happen, but I like to keep you guys informed ^^ and I guess I can some day look back and see how many times I delayed in my schedule?
Anyway, no chapter Sunday, or at least I don't think so. I haven't gotten far with it because of assignments in school, and we haven't even properly started the group stuff :/ I'm gonna get busy... XD
Sorry for the wait, but I have to do this stuff ^^

Well, I actually fucking got it. Been working for the past three weeks at my first proper job in years, and I have even better news than that.

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I know.

I know, I know.

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If anyone really needs the reasons why your sister is the way to go... all the way, naturally. And yes, it's natural, it's much more natural than some of you out there.

Just imagine Fluttershy's your sister.
You invite her to the dance because "you two have the same group of friends". At least, that's how you'll need to portray it in front of your parents.

She accepts because, you know, the two of you are, like, totally a thing... and exactly what it sounds like.

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this book gets better and better

so much gay/lesb i love it

Or Easter, for ya'll who don't like my name for it. Regardless, I hope you have had a good weekend. And now I have a present for you all:

THE NEXT CHAPTER OF THE TROTTING DEAD IS FINISHED AND HAS BEEN SENT TO KJAY!

And it's only just over two years late!

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From the director of The Hunger Games 2, 3, and 4...

This. What is this? Why is this?

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DATELINE: the American Midwest. An innocent man struggles to find parking in Local Biggish City, child in tow, wife waiting at home--and all feeling desperate. Back home, the fridge is empty, save for leftovers of dubious vintage; and the pantry is that curious mix of stuffed-to-the-gills yet containing absolutely nothing. To make matters worse, he is ill, and has taken to wearing one of those uncomfortable blue mask thingies for the good of his fellow man.

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Author. Yes, you, author. Come here. I am most upset.

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Oh, watch him lie on his lounge, that old Aragón, that sharp fella. Covered in that velvet red robe of his, sipping idly from a cup of whiskey. There's a man you'd call a friend. There's a chap you'd call when there's trouble -- not because he can help, but he can stand there looking, make a witty quip.

You could kiss him, right now, but you won't. Because you know Aragón, that sharp fella. You know that cup looks like it's full of whiskey, but chances are, it's full of cum.

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