zerlizee:

thedrunkenmoogle:

ianbrooks: A Song of Hops and Barley by satansbrand

Shirts and stickers available at redbubble. From the George R.R. Martin Brewery in Westeros.

Someone make these real & get them inside me. Drunkenness is coming.

If I ever get my home brewing project running, I’m going to use something like these for my labels.

zerlizee:

annakie:

fuckyeahkaidanalenko:

morie91:

GAIS GAIS!! I dunno who the cosplayer is, but finally IT’S KAIDAN COSPLAY!! *yyuuuuussss*

my inner fangirl screams silently

This is really incredible cosplay!

This guy knows how to get the girls.

I may not be a big fan of Kaidan but PA-CHOW!

So, uh, forget shaving my head and being Default Shepard, I’ll just leave my hair as is and be Kaidan. I look Brazilian. It’ll work.

zerlizee:

The Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy; you make me happy inside.

poluraspad:

#Baby I’ve been ready since The first meeting at the presidium in me1 #take me now you fine specimen of a lover

I’d turn gay for Garrus.

(via zerlizee)

So, uh, yeah… I’ve been away from Tumblr for a few months.  No big deal.

Before I got bored and stopped coming, I set up a second log for no apparent reason.  I think it was supposed to be a more refined and future-focussed version of this one, more thought-provoking or some shit.  Who knows?  Not I, said the fly.

What I will do with this second log, however, is use it as a pinboard for short pieces of my work that don’t fit into longer manuscripts; experimental stuff, character studies, fever dreams, whatever.  Any such material in this log will be reblogged across to the second log, presumably in chronological order.  I’ve been sloppy with tags and labels, so if you were particularly keen to read my work{Why?  No, really, tell me.] without having to slog through all the photos I’ve shamelessly pilfered from others, now is your chance.

The Zaibatsu Boy log will remain the marginally sarcastic, cyberpunk/biopunk/motorbike/robot/photography/architecture-obsessed dumping ground for my ideas.

The second log, R.G. Hanna, will be for my work and anything related to it.  Things that appear there that weren’t made by me will be for my own motivational/inspirational purposes, et cetera, and will likely carry annotations that will make little sense to you, my dear reader.

This is hilarious, I love it.

(via change--the--world)

I had forgotten the simple delight of walking the broken streets at night.

These past six months have been hard on me, at least mentally.  Unemployment and I are not the best of lovers; it keeps showing up on my doorstep, looking for me, promising not to stay long.  Six damn months.

My first shift hurt.  I had forgotten what powdered glass feels like in the web of your fingers.  My shoes were hard, unyielding; shiny leather tops on dirty leather soles.  The hard blocks of cork at the heels drove into my bones with each step.  Six hours flew, feeling like only three, as my hands washed and stacked and swept and mopped.  Broken glass on the dancefloor.  Vomit in the ladies’, feces in the mens’, bile in my throat.  My hands knew their job.  Just like old times; just like always.

We pushed out through the fire doors, into the service alleyway; the bar is underground, but the alley slopes at the bottom.  I hobbled along cracked pavement, alone, feet damaged but still serviceable.  My only company were street sweeper carts: the electric kind with the bubble-like cockpit at the front, like a glass pupa stuck to a white cube.  I walked maybe ten minutes, each step an iron nail in my shinbone.  I knew that my feet would hurt for a few days, but I didn’t sit down to rest.  I wanted to get to Elysium without delay.  ”Rule #7: find a safe place to lie up and wait for the dawn.”

Many nights had I spent in Elysium, and it was one of my safe places in this tortured Valley.  My feet did their job admirably, and soon I was hobbling up Brunswick Mall. Past the cop shop—the night shift lads were mostly standing outside the door, all in their navy blue Tac gear, looking wary over steaming cardboard cups—and through the glass door beside the 7-Eleven.  Up the stairs to the second glass door and into the well-lit, quiet room that was Elysium.  An apt name for my haven, my safe place above the very epicentre of the city’s nightlife. The bloke at the front desk glanced up with a nod of greeting, and I returned it with a smile of recognition.  The gentle hum of terminals and fluoro tubes was like music to me, after the shit my ears had been assaulted with at work. Five o’clock. I tumbled into a chair and started up a terminal. The screen flashed, some blue lights popped, there was a beep. The chair was low and tilted back just a touch too far to actually be comfortable. My account still had a couple of bucks left; it was enough.

I was in the highest membership tier; bar staff got special rates, and I had a Platinum account that would never expire. Six bloody months, and it was like nothing had changed. As my terminal carried me through the blue and white shallows of the ‘net, I reflected on my evolving situation. I had spent six months in my little cave, and the six months before that drinking myself to death and hating everyone in the universe just for being human. Who the hell knows what the next six months will be like?

With the bulky headset on, I couldn’t hear the scum— sorry, the customers outside in the Mall below. I knew they were there. They were always there, but up here I was warm and entertained by my terminal, far from the drunks picking fights and vomiting on things. Five-oh-three, and my game loaded up. I had a couple hours to kill before the trains started again—Sunday, bloody Sunday—so I let myself be absorbed into the game, fighting with gun and grenade through Bolivian jungle. When next I turned my eyes from my screen, the sun was shining weakly upon the Mall, as though it too was hungover and unwilling to work a Sunday shift. Outside the nearest window, fairy lights and grubby paper lanterns hung from powerlines. The neon signs were dead, and the weak sun showed their dirt-streaked backboards hanging off dirt-streaked brick that rose from vomit-spattered pavement. A few drunks and itinerants staggered about, squinting in the sunlight, still too witless to string two thoughts together. An old Aboriginal bat started howling curses at some twit who staggered too close to her patch. Shitrags and newspaper bundled in plastic bags, scraggly grey hair flowing over a threadbare pink Adidas jacket.

I laughed and stepped away from the window.  Bugger this place, I was going home to bed.

— R.G. Hanna, March 2012

Grimes - Crystal Ball

I haven’t yet found a Grimes song I dislike, and somehow I don’t think I could.

She describes her style as “post-internet”; it is amorphous and utterly free to be anything and everything, and nothing but Grimes.  Her vocal range is brilliant, and I find that hint of a lisp enthralling.  The voice and the subtle ebb and flow of sounds compel me to keep listening, even to stop what I’m doing and just sit blankly until the song ends.