You are to transfer back to your respective armies and report the deaths of the reds and blues. They will become the martyrs needed to push these people toward one final confrontation 

so close to ragequitting fucKING OP JETPACK ASSHOLE


Junior year of high school, I was in a psych class. We did all sorts of experiments regularly, one of which was on body language. My teacher handed volunteers cards and we each acted out whatever was written on them. Students in their seats would shout out adjectives or nouns describing the person—this person is nervous, that person is relaxed.

My card was confusing. It said to straighten up, put my hands behind my back, grip my arm, and walk around the room. I had to survey the students, occasionally pausing at a desk and observing the student in it.

I was stately.

My teacher explained that this was the posture that people of power adopted. Presidents, ministers. They were in positions of respect but, more importantly, of authority. They looked proper. And important. Perhaps they looked condescending, but, with hands behind their backs and body exposed for the world to see, they were open. High, but approachable. Grand.

Lucifer doesn’t walk like he has wings. Lucifer walks like a king.

SHRIEKS LOUDLY   WOW FUCK   WOw   god   supernatural   baby   

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