Okay so I sped up The Phoenix by Fall Out Boy and help it’s really good
thIS IS GONNA GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK
holy shit
IM SO PUMPED UP RIGHT NOW IM GONNA KILL A GUY
perfect song for the gym
if only I ever went to the gym
(via messessentialist)
This is how the rain looks like when you’re up there.
BEST PHOTO IN EXISTENCE.
I love how it’s only over that town, like Nature decided to just fuck their day up.
(Source: harahana.blog110.fc2.com, via siseja)
I wanted to do this to my hair but my mom was like ‘why don’t you also get ’flaming homosexual’ tattooed on your face too so yeah that didn’t happen yet.
(via messessentialist)
IMAGINE IF INSTEAD OF LAUGHING YOU STARTED HEADBANGING SO LIKE IF YOU WERE IN A COMEDY CLUB WHEN THE COMEDIAN MADE A FUNNY JOKE PEOPLE STARTED A MOSH PIT
(via gayfather)
![knightsoftheroundbooty:
fyeahcreepyshit:
Submitted by kissmycatastrophe
My dad is an art professor at a well-respected American university. He forwarded me this email after I came home from class one day to find him looking profoundly shaken. The sender’s email address was untraceable, one of those yahoo throwaways composed of a mix of numbers and letters. He claims not to recognize the name at the bottom.
Dear Professor [last name],
I don’t know if you will remember me or not.
I was in your intro class three years ago, ART 160 (Art in Motion), and submitted a video for the final project that you called “one of the most fascinating and disturbing student works I’ve seen in years”. The project consisted of a video depicting a teenage girl, trapped in a windowless white room, slowly descending into madness. You encouraged me to submit it to an exhibition specializing in the urban horror genre. I wish you had told me to submit it to the garbage can instead.
This email is a confession. I cheated on that project. I was not involved with filming or directing that video, and I have no idea as to the identity of the girl in the room. There is no excuse for what I did. I took your class to fulfill a general education requirement and realized three weeks into it that I was hopelessly uncreative. The final project asked us to “explore the concept of size, mutability, and negative space”. My grade up to that point had floated between a low C and high D; desperate to raise it, I racked my brain for hours trying to come up with an original concept, and found nothing. That was when I found the video.
The blank CD was sitting on a table in the undergraduate library. I don’t know why I picked it up – it had no label, and could have easily been a copy of someone’s thesis that they forgot about after printing a hard copy. I took it home and popped it in my computer, hoping to find a music mix that I could rip. What I found instead was a compressed video file that was about 46 minutes long. The first minute and five seconds show only an empty white room. There is a subsequent period of visual corruption accompanied by a harsh buzzing sound, followed by the sudden appearance of the subject. I won’t describe the whole thing, since you’ve seen it already. Personally, I have no desire to revisit it.
I didn’t give the video my full attention the first time I watched it. My sole objective, having seized upon this unexpected opportunity, was to brainstorm a decent argument as to how it met the requirements for the final project. I submitted the newly christened Untitled (told you I was uncreative) the next day. I felt guilty, but at that point, I truly felt as if I had no other options.
You remarked that the main actress was extremely believable in her emotional depictions of panic and anger, especially for someone so young. You asked me how I knew her, and I dodged the question, since I didn’t. In my feedback report, you described the ending scene, which cuts suddenly from a clip of the girl clawing frantically at the door with bloody hands to an image of a hooded figure turning to face the camera, “an impressive use of special effects, if slightly overwrought”. It pains me to have to tell you that I no longer believe special effects were involved. The girl wasn’t an actress. She had been placed in the room against her will.
How do I know this? Turns out I took your advice and submitted the film to that exhibition, having some half-baked idea that I might be able to get some money for it. Can you really blame the broke college student? Anyway, it was met with the same positive reception there as it had in your class. I signed a contract agreeing to a longer run and a good commission. There were some complications with funding, and the exhibition’s opening was postponed until October of last year. On the day it finally premiered, I received a strange package in the mail. It was a large brown envelope, unmarked except for my name and address, which were written in all caps with a thick black marker.
Inside were photographs. Disturbing ones. Photos of the girl from the video, naked, bloodied, and obviously dead. Upon seeing them, I began to panic. I took them inside and burned them, every last one, thinking that if I were caught with these somehow, it would look like I had been the one to kill her. Before I calmed down and realized that the police might have been able to make use of them, they were nothing but ash.
I called the director of the exhibition the next day and begged him to remove my video from it. He refused, stating that I had agreed when signing the contract that the piece would remain in his possession for the entirety of the exhibition, to be returned at its end. I argued with him, but no dice. Guess I should have read that damn contract, huh? The exhibition ran for nine days. Every day I would come home to find another package waiting for me. Some of the photos showed the room, others the hooded figure. The vast majority of them showed the girl’s body. When the exhibition ended, the packages did too. Then I started getting phone calls – every hour on the hour, like clockwork. No one on the other end, just static. Once, listening closely to the distorted sound, I thought I could hear someone screaming.
I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m hoping that this confession will make it stop. I’m going crazy, professor. Every night I dream of a white room and once, waking up in a cold sweat, I thought I saw a hooded figure leaning over my bed. I’m pretty sure that was a hallucination, because when I turned on the light no one was there.
Please forgive me. I graduated last spring, but if there’s some way you can change the grade to an F retroactively, I don’t care if they take away my diploma.
I just want these dreams to stop.
Thanks
Peter Brandt
pls this is not okay](http://25.media.tumblr.com/ee049a8a20b2edff59c3d05f78decf3f/tumblr_mfvjyl89RL1r3q7iqo1_500.jpg "knightsoftheroundbooty:
fyeahcreepyshit:
Submitted by kissmycatastrophe
My dad is an art professor at a well-respected American university. He forwarded me this email after I came home from class one day to find him looking profoundly shaken. The sender’s email address was untraceable, one of those yahoo throwaways composed of a mix of numbers and letters. He claims not to recognize the name at the bottom.
Dear Professor [last name],
I don’t know if you will remember me or not.
I was in your intro class three years ago, ART 160 (Art in Motion), and submitted a video for the final project that you called “one of the most fascinating and disturbing student works I’ve seen in years”. The project consisted of a video depicting a teenage girl, trapped in a windowless white room, slowly descending into madness. You encouraged me to submit it to an exhibition specializing in the urban horror genre. I wish you had told me to submit it to the garbage can instead.
This email is a confession. I cheated on that project. I was not involved with filming or directing that video, and I have no idea as to the identity of the girl in the room. There is no excuse for what I did. I took your class to fulfill a general education requirement and realized three weeks into it that I was hopelessly uncreative. The final project asked us to “explore the concept of size, mutability, and negative space”. My grade up to that point had floated between a low C and high D; desperate to raise it, I racked my brain for hours trying to come up with an original concept, and found nothing. That was when I found the video.
The blank CD was sitting on a table in the undergraduate library. I don’t know why I picked it up – it had no label, and could have easily been a copy of someone’s thesis that they forgot about after printing a hard copy. I took it home and popped it in my computer, hoping to find a music mix that I could rip. What I found instead was a compressed video file that was about 46 minutes long. The first minute and five seconds show only an empty white room. There is a subsequent period of visual corruption accompanied by a harsh buzzing sound, followed by the sudden appearance of the subject. I won’t describe the whole thing, since you’ve seen it already. Personally, I have no desire to revisit it.
I didn’t give the video my full attention the first time I watched it. My sole objective, having seized upon this unexpected opportunity, was to brainstorm a decent argument as to how it met the requirements for the final project. I submitted the newly christened Untitled (told you I was uncreative) the next day. I felt guilty, but at that point, I truly felt as if I had no other options.
You remarked that the main actress was extremely believable in her emotional depictions of panic and anger, especially for someone so young. You asked me how I knew her, and I dodged the question, since I didn’t. In my feedback report, you described the ending scene, which cuts suddenly from a clip of the girl clawing frantically at the door with bloody hands to an image of a hooded figure turning to face the camera, “an impressive use of special effects, if slightly overwrought”. It pains me to have to tell you that I no longer believe special effects were involved. The girl wasn’t an actress. She had been placed in the room against her will.
How do I know this? Turns out I took your advice and submitted the film to that exhibition, having some half-baked idea that I might be able to get some money for it. Can you really blame the broke college student? Anyway, it was met with the same positive reception there as it had in your class. I signed a contract agreeing to a longer run and a good commission. There were some complications with funding, and the exhibition’s opening was postponed until October of last year. On the day it finally premiered, I received a strange package in the mail. It was a large brown envelope, unmarked except for my name and address, which were written in all caps with a thick black marker.
Inside were photographs. Disturbing ones. Photos of the girl from the video, naked, bloodied, and obviously dead. Upon seeing them, I began to panic. I took them inside and burned them, every last one, thinking that if I were caught with these somehow, it would look like I had been the one to kill her. Before I calmed down and realized that the police might have been able to make use of them, they were nothing but ash.
I called the director of the exhibition the next day and begged him to remove my video from it. He refused, stating that I had agreed when signing the contract that the piece would remain in his possession for the entirety of the exhibition, to be returned at its end. I argued with him, but no dice. Guess I should have read that damn contract, huh? The exhibition ran for nine days. Every day I would come home to find another package waiting for me. Some of the photos showed the room, others the hooded figure. The vast majority of them showed the girl’s body. When the exhibition ended, the packages did too. Then I started getting phone calls – every hour on the hour, like clockwork. No one on the other end, just static. Once, listening closely to the distorted sound, I thought I could hear someone screaming.
I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m hoping that this confession will make it stop. I’m going crazy, professor. Every night I dream of a white room and once, waking up in a cold sweat, I thought I saw a hooded figure leaning over my bed. I’m pretty sure that was a hallucination, because when I turned on the light no one was there.
Please forgive me. I graduated last spring, but if there’s some way you can change the grade to an F retroactively, I don’t care if they take away my diploma.
I just want these dreams to stop.
Thanks
Peter Brandt
pls this is not okay")
Submitted by kissmycatastrophe
My dad is an art professor at a well-respected American university. He forwarded me this email after I came home from class one day to find him looking profoundly shaken. The sender’s email address was untraceable, one of those yahoo throwaways composed of a mix of numbers and letters. He claims not to recognize the name at the bottom.
Dear Professor [last name],
I don’t know if you will remember me or not.
I was in your intro class three years ago, ART 160 (Art in Motion), and submitted a video for the final project that you called “one of the most fascinating and disturbing student works I’ve seen in years”. The project consisted of a video depicting a teenage girl, trapped in a windowless white room, slowly descending into madness. You encouraged me to submit it to an exhibition specializing in the urban horror genre. I wish you had told me to submit it to the garbage can instead.
This email is a confession. I cheated on that project. I was not involved with filming or directing that video, and I have no idea as to the identity of the girl in the room. There is no excuse for what I did. I took your class to fulfill a general education requirement and realized three weeks into it that I was hopelessly uncreative. The final project asked us to “explore the concept of size, mutability, and negative space”. My grade up to that point had floated between a low C and high D; desperate to raise it, I racked my brain for hours trying to come up with an original concept, and found nothing. That was when I found the video.
The blank CD was sitting on a table in the undergraduate library. I don’t know why I picked it up – it had no label, and could have easily been a copy of someone’s thesis that they forgot about after printing a hard copy. I took it home and popped it in my computer, hoping to find a music mix that I could rip. What I found instead was a compressed video file that was about 46 minutes long. The first minute and five seconds show only an empty white room. There is a subsequent period of visual corruption accompanied by a harsh buzzing sound, followed by the sudden appearance of the subject. I won’t describe the whole thing, since you’ve seen it already. Personally, I have no desire to revisit it.
I didn’t give the video my full attention the first time I watched it. My sole objective, having seized upon this unexpected opportunity, was to brainstorm a decent argument as to how it met the requirements for the final project. I submitted the newly christened Untitled (told you I was uncreative) the next day. I felt guilty, but at that point, I truly felt as if I had no other options.
You remarked that the main actress was extremely believable in her emotional depictions of panic and anger, especially for someone so young. You asked me how I knew her, and I dodged the question, since I didn’t. In my feedback report, you described the ending scene, which cuts suddenly from a clip of the girl clawing frantically at the door with bloody hands to an image of a hooded figure turning to face the camera, “an impressive use of special effects, if slightly overwrought”. It pains me to have to tell you that I no longer believe special effects were involved. The girl wasn’t an actress. She had been placed in the room against her will.
How do I know this? Turns out I took your advice and submitted the film to that exhibition, having some half-baked idea that I might be able to get some money for it. Can you really blame the broke college student? Anyway, it was met with the same positive reception there as it had in your class. I signed a contract agreeing to a longer run and a good commission. There were some complications with funding, and the exhibition’s opening was postponed until October of last year. On the day it finally premiered, I received a strange package in the mail. It was a large brown envelope, unmarked except for my name and address, which were written in all caps with a thick black marker.
Inside were photographs. Disturbing ones. Photos of the girl from the video, naked, bloodied, and obviously dead. Upon seeing them, I began to panic. I took them inside and burned them, every last one, thinking that if I were caught with these somehow, it would look like I had been the one to kill her. Before I calmed down and realized that the police might have been able to make use of them, they were nothing but ash.
I called the director of the exhibition the next day and begged him to remove my video from it. He refused, stating that I had agreed when signing the contract that the piece would remain in his possession for the entirety of the exhibition, to be returned at its end. I argued with him, but no dice. Guess I should have read that damn contract, huh? The exhibition ran for nine days. Every day I would come home to find another package waiting for me. Some of the photos showed the room, others the hooded figure. The vast majority of them showed the girl’s body. When the exhibition ended, the packages did too. Then I started getting phone calls – every hour on the hour, like clockwork. No one on the other end, just static. Once, listening closely to the distorted sound, I thought I could hear someone screaming.
I don’t know what he wants from me. I’m hoping that this confession will make it stop. I’m going crazy, professor. Every night I dream of a white room and once, waking up in a cold sweat, I thought I saw a hooded figure leaning over my bed. I’m pretty sure that was a hallucination, because when I turned on the light no one was there.
Please forgive me. I graduated last spring, but if there’s some way you can change the grade to an F retroactively, I don’t care if they take away my diploma.
I just want these dreams to stop.
Thanks
Peter Brandt
pls this is not okay
(via gayfather)
i made sum pancakes
oh my god are you shitting me
For those moments when you REALLY FUCKING NEED A PANCAKE.
How about a spooncake?
(Source: im-electricsympathy, via nescio-et-excrucior)
