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Similar Deviations
I hate having to speak to you
But I hate when you ignore

I hate when you don't return my emails
And I hate when you don't call

I hate the way you avoid my eyes
When I'm trying to look into yours

And I hate what you say behind my back
And all the trouble that you cause

I hate the dot to dot acne just above your nose
And I hate your nearly-a-monobrow too

I hate the way you're so selfish
And how it always has to be about you

But mostly I hate that none of this is true
And the fact that I hate myself
For not being to hate you
My friend Angelie is extremely lazy and cannot be bothered to write her own poem, and me, in my charitable state, decided to help her out. Actually, I didnt pay much attention to what had to be done, so if this is wrong: write your own!

I wanted to write something like this anyway- its sposed to be like the 10 Things I Hate About You one, although, I realise, that this can never be replaced. :)
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Full name: Kayla Blaisdale

Pronunciation: kay-la blaze-dale

Nickname(s) or Alias: Kay, Goose, Nosebleed, Red / Dimitri, Dimi.

Gender: Female.

Species: Human.

Age: FO3 - 19, FONV - 23.

Birthday: July 13, 2258.

Sexuality: Heterosexual, for the most part.

Nationality: American, with Irish roots.

Religion: Believes in God, but is casually religious at best.

City or town of birth: Vault 101.

Currently lives: Megaton, until 2280. New Vegas.

Languages spoken: English.

Native language: English.

Relationship Status: It's complicated.


Height: 6'

Weight: 170 lbs.

Figure/build: Lean and slender, with developed muscles in her arms and legs - her main weapons when no hand held weapon can be acquired.

Hair colour: Burgundy/Dark Red.

Hairstyle: Long(to shoulderblades), mostly un-styled save for trimmed bangs. Worn in a ponytail most of the time, either done up like in-game, or left to hang down.

Eye colour: Bright Green.

Skin/fur/etc colour: Pale, freckled.

Tattoos: Acquires a Tunnel Snake snake tattoo during her trip to New Vegas. It is on her left arm.

Piercings: 9 rings in each ear, 1 nipple piercing - right side.

Scars/distinguishing marks: Right bicep - bullet graze. Underside of left arm - cut. Left side of rib cage - ripper graze. Right shoulder - bullet wound. Cheek marks.

Preferred style of clothing: Vault suits, leather jackets, t-shirts, tanktops, jeans, combat boots.

Frequently worn jewellery: TBA


Smoker? No.

Drinker? Yes.

Drug User? Which? Nope.

Addictions: None.

Allergies: None discovered so far.

Any physical ailments/illnesses/disabilities: She took a bullet to the shoulder, and it sometimes gets cranky.

Any medication regularly taken: None.


Personality: Generally, she's nice to people who she feels are deserving, and belligerent to those who aren't(unless they're some sort of authority person, and could make her life hell if she got on their bad side). However, she has a quick temper and isn't afraid of starting fist fights with certain individuals. She is somewhat quiet and doesn't share her feelings easily. She enjoys comic books, re-reading beloved stories and silently fangirling over Gambit.

Likes: Comic books, Nuka Cola, Fighting, Guns, Doodling, Music, Whiskey, Beer, Baseball, Stuffed Animals, Reading, Learning about the Pre-War world, Dancing, Exploring

Dislikes: Cigarette smoke, Roach meat, Her Vault 101 job(fry cook), Deathclaws, Dresses, The Enclave,

Fears/phobias: Being alone, losing her friends.

Favourite colour: Blue.

Hobbies: Doodling, Collecting comic books, Fixing things.

Taste in music: Rock n Roll, 50s Pop.


Talents/skills: Repairing things, Figuring how to make stuff work(aka high Repair skill XD), Good with guns, Hand-to-hand combat,

Ability to drive a car? Operate any other vehicles? Nope and nope.


Omnivore/Carnivore/Herbivore: Omnivore

Favourite food(s): Brahmin steak, Fresh fruit, Eggs.

Favourite drink(s): Nuka Cola, Sunset Sarsaparilla.

Disliked food: Mole Rat meat, Dog meat(refuses to try it).

Disliked drinks: Moonshine (it kicks her ass), Wine.


Describe the character's house/home: Megaton house is decorated with the Pre-war theme. Special additions include a Grognak poster, and others recovered from the Hubris place. Some guns recovered along the way are hung on the walls, and books and pre-war toys are stuck where ever there is space atop things. The Jukebox is rarely turned off. In New Vegas, she doesn't have a permanent home, yet (the Lucky 38 isn't hers.. yet XD)

Significant/special belongings: Her Comic books, though some are bittersweet reminders of lost friendships and her Dad. Her Photograph collection is the same. Her baseball, glove and bat are reminders of one of her favorite Vault activities. The Abe action figure, because it's damn cool.


Level of education: Vault equivalent of High School.

Qualifications: Repairing certain types of machinery, Pip-boys, and guns.

Current job title and description: Mercenary/Scavenger. Courier(Yeah, that went well XD).

Name of employer: Whoever offers a suitable job, though she does end up working with Reilly's Rangers for a few years, after the events of the main quest.


Peaceful or aggressive attitude? Aggressive. However, she won't kill a foe unless they're carrying a gun, and can potentially kill her before she can get to them.

Fighting skills/techniques: Good with punches and kicks. Her aim with a gun is pretty good, too. In situations that call for either life or death, she will snipe as many as she can.

Special skills/magical powers/etc: N/A

Weapon of choice (if any): Scoped rifle or 10mm, Grenades, Baseball Bat.

Weaknesses in combat: She is clumsy with most melee-type weapons and blocking hits, and can become overconfident. Certain now-healed injuries still give her trouble, and can cripple her if they receive a good hit.

Strengths in combat: She's quick and can hold her own against most male foes. She also knows where to punch to best disable a foe, but will rarely resort to crotch kicks.


Parents names: James and Catharine.

Are parents alive or dead? Both are deceased.

Is the character still in contact with their parents? If they weren't dead, she would be.

Siblings? Relationship with siblings? No official ones.

Other Important Relatives: Lucy Palmer and Herman Gomez. They may not have been officially related, but Lucy was like a grandmother figure, and Herman was something of an uncle.

Partner: Knives

Children: None.

Best Friend: Baraka, Amata, until she banned Kayla from the Vault. Butch is her new BFF.

Other Important Friends: Charon, Julian, Baraka, Veronica, Cass, Andrés, Reilly and the Rangers, Sarah Lyons, Freddie, Beetle, Knives

Acquaintances: Many.

Pets: Sparky, the Radroach. Dogmeat & Rex.

Enemies? Why are they enemies? Colonel Autumn - for his interference in Project Purity, and being the cause for James to sacrifice himself. Benny - he shot her in the head >:I.

Backstory: This is the part I suck at, so I'll add it later, maybe XD.
I finally did one of these! Although this is kind of incomplete. I know there's things I missed, and I need to write a bio x.x

The image is a screenshot(picture of the tv actually) I added bangs and other details to. I cleaned it up a little, as well.

The blank sheet is by =TtotheAFFY and can be found here: [link]
Dimitri belongs to A. Crowe.
Andrés belongs to !GlitteryJizz
Beetle belongs to =Jathis
Knives belongs to ~dr-glitzkrieg

Edit #2: If you got here from my rp account, note that a lot of things on this profile no longer apply to that Dimi. I'm linking this mostly for stats and the picture XD.
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I know painters paint it, composers play it, actors can act it...but what can writer's do?

Well, we can tell it in a story, we can convey it in a play, we can sing it in lyrics, and we can illustrate it in poems.

But, for the moment I am not a painter, a composer, an actor, or a writer...but I can explain it the only way I know how...

Love is:
Frustratingly magnificent while also terribly unique.
Confusing and intriguing, and can also leave you weak.
Menacingly wonderful if not also specially designed,
All emotions put together, but right now they are all mine.
Rivaling with a person whom I've never seen before,
knowing that no matter what; I will always love him more.
Daunting and perilous, but sweet and caring too,
A feeling of elation when it means so much to you.
A dance
A song
A rhythm in rhyme.
A feeling that can and will always transcend time.
The moment of that passing glance;
The crazy feeling of being lost in a trance....
The daydream of the soul's song,
The triumph and the elation, when other's think it's wrong.
The counterpoint,
the notes you sing
That one important idyllic dream.
That sickening feeling of despair.
As if you wonder why it was ever there.
The anger and the hate;
So overpowering it's hard to contemplate.
That moment of desire.
A stage in which your soul's on fire.
The pivotal turn.
The point in which your heart will burn.
The chance you have for your spirit to be sold.
Wanting only to have him to hold.
The night in which your conscious cries
Impossible tears that you despise.
That ache of knowing that he's not there,
A feeling that he can't be found anywhere.
Believing, that, with all your might.
Seeing him in your dreams that night.
Sometimes more than you could ever say,
certainly more than this little poem could every convey...
Love is....
Number two in the 100 Pieces of Writing Challenge...

*Dances* G'wa...just take a flying guess on who my muse was for this....

Yes...I was giddy...blame the extremely fluffy sequence I'm writing....
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J'ai des collants opaques et une jupe plissée de malice.
J'égraine le temps comme j'inonde le monde
de feuilles mortes et de routes qui glissent.
Je saute dans les flaques pour faire s'enfuir
les oiseaux et prévenir de mon arrivée.

Je peints ma vie en nuances de gris.
Douce et câline je m'enroule dans une couette de nuages.
Je fais scintiller le ciel par les millions d'éclairs que j'ai dans les yeux.

J'aime me draper dans les odeurs de la terre fumante
Et hanter la nature de mes brumes Mystérieuses.
J'engourdis l'elliptique de mon passage jusqu'à l'hypnose hivernale.
Suite à un commentaire judicieux de mon ami :iconryusukeminami:
que voici:
Très beau texte ^-^
Il n'y a qu'un truc qui me dérange... le premier vers de la dernière strophe : "J'aime me draper dans les odeurs de la terre d'automne"
... comment l'automne peut-il(elle) aimer se draper dans la terre qui porte son nom ? C'est justement parce qu'elle aime s'y draper qu'elle s'appelle terre d'automne, alors l'Automne elle-même ne devrait pas pouvoir l'appeler comme ça... je verrais bien "dans la terre des plaisir" ou un truc dans le genre... m'enfin, c'est toi qui vois, c'est ton texte et, encore une fois, il est très beau

J'ai donc décidé d'éditer le mot qui ne colle pas.
Remplacé par le mot "fumante" cela permet de mieux faire la transition avec le mot "hante" dans le vers suivant.

Ce texte est toujours pour mon ami :iconglasssiva:
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The curtain open revealing an eight year old's bedroom. In the room is a bed, a shelf where books are stored, a drawer beside the bed and drawer on the edge of SL. A few clothes are on the floor. YOUNG ANNA, eight years old, comes running onstage along with ANTHONY, a man in his late thirties wearing glasses.

You can't catch me Daddy!

Oh yes I will!

ANTHONY flies his daughter through the air as she screams with laughter. He flips her on the bed and tickles her as they both wildly laugh. MELINDA, a short, stout woman in her late thirties wearing a robe and slippers along with curlers in her hair enters the room.

Keep it down you two! If we get another noise complaint we are sure to get kicked out of this apartment for good.

Sorry Mama.

It's past your bedtime. Go to sleep now.

That's right we don't want you to snore too loudly in class tomorrow morning would we?

I don't snore!

MELINDA, in a loving way, rolls her eyes and busies herself picking up dropped clothes around the room.

Good night pumpkin.

ANTHONY kisses her goodnight and tucks his daughter into bed.

Thank you for taking me to the Broadway play today Daddy. It was the best thing I ever saw in my whole life!

I'm glad you liked it sweetie, I knew you were going to love it.

Daddy do you think that some day it'll be me dancing up on that stage?

Yes Anna, I believe you'd be a wonderful actress someday.

Do you really think so?!

You have a good shot. If you just believe....

Anthony that is enough. Don't put that kind of stuff into Anna's head. When I was little I wanted to be a veterinarian, but that didn't come true.

You could still try Mama.

I can't sweetie. I have you to raise and I'm a caterer. And that is what I'm happy with doing Anna.

Melinda she can still be an actress if she wants to.

Just don't let it get to her head, otherwise she'll be disappointed from the outcome.

Can I still be who I want to be Mama?
Of course pumpkin. I'm just tell you not to get your hopes up because everyone's outcome doesn't come out positive. Just don't be sad about your outcome. You can still try.

Okay Mama.

Good night Anna. I love you.

Good night Mama.

Good night dear.

MELINDA turns and just stares at her husband for a few seconds.



Is Mama right Daddy? What if I can't do it or what if I fail?

Believe in what you can do Anna. If being an actress makes you happy then you have a good shot at making it with a ton of practice. Don't let your mother discourage you because all dreams come true if you keep on believing. She did want to be a caterer and that came true for her.

Daddy can I ask you something?

What is it?

I've noticed that you and Mama have been yelling all the time. Are you two going to get separated?

[Holding ANNA's hands]
Nothing will ever happen to us honey. We love each other no matter what happens. Don't you ever think about that, Anna because we will never stop loving each other. Your mother won't leave and I will never leave.


I promise.

ANNA hugs her father tightly. ANTHONY begins to sing a lullaby.

ANTHONY [Continues]
[Light singing voice]
One day I put a little batter in the oven,
And out popped a cupcake,
The little cupcake had a face and asked me not to eat her,
The little cupcake turned out to be a little bigl,
And that little girl became my Anna,
If anyone was the eat her I'll steal her back and she's mine,
As the years went my little cupcake never turned bad
Because the fairy God mother blessed her with eternal beauty,
Oh I love my little cupcake and I always will...

ANTHONY pulls the covers up to YOUNG ANNA.

I love you pumpkin, good night.

Good night Daddy, I love you.
So you all remember this ten minute play I wrote last year. I'm planning to make it into a real play. Do you think that sounds good? If you like, as I write, give me any idea's or make things better PLEASE COMMENT. Thanks! I feel that the beginning has a nice touch to it and I was wondering how the character of Anthony felt to people. Did I do a good job on explaining the characters and the setting?

How was the beginning?
Do you like the characters?
Is there anything more I should put into it to make it better?

Next Scene [link]

I commented on this work before submitted [link]

All characters belong to me.
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In a land that has long since been lost on any map you might find today, there once lived a little prince who dwelt in a tall pagoda.  He ruled a beautiful kingdom, which lay in the very heart of a long chain of mountains.  Every morning the little prince would go to his window and watch the golden sun rise beyond the peaks and bathe everything in a warm glow.  But the little prince never felt this warmness himself, for his father, the Great Emperor, kept him locked inside the pagoda day and night.

One day the little prince was looking down at his village.  Just as always, it seemed to spring from the green garden, traversing the entire landscape, dotted with beautiful trees that blossomed pink and white flowers every spring.  There were crystal clear brooks tumbling over shining black stone; jade bridges connecting the land in between, and houses snuggled together with their unique curved and layered rooftops pointing at the sky.  But the little prince saw no beauty in any of this; instead, all he saw was green, and boxes with roofs, and the constant humdrum lives of his subjects.

At the time, the little prince was watching three children carry a gold-trimmed box down to the riverbank.  Immediately, the prince recognized the boy carrying the box.  He was the son of the Royal Horse Trainer; their family minded all the animals in the entire kingdom.  They were hard working individuals, seldom seen gossiping and reposing, as was customary of most normal people.

Intrigued, the little prince called down to the boy, “Why aren’t you working like your father?  Or at school with the other children?”

“The fish died last night,” the village boy called up to the little prince – as if that explained everything.

“What do you mean by that?  Fish die all the time,” said the little prince, very wisely.

“Well,” said the village boy, very slowly, “we came to give him a proper burial.”

Hearing this, the little prince burst out laughing.  In fact, the prince laughed so hard he worried that the seams of his beautiful silk gown might break any moment – then he would be in for it.  Quick as a snap, the little prince fixed his face sternly, as a prince should, and returned to watching the village boy, who had turned around to face the river once more.

He and his two friends set the box in the water, watched it float out of sight, then began to weep.  Again, the little prince couldn’t help laughing.  He shook his head and thought, “What silly children!  Look at them cry over a fish, which is hardly more interesting than a rock!”

Now the village boy turned to look at the laughing prince.  He shouted, “I pity you little prince!  Your heart is cold as ice!  And when you are older, your enemies will be as numerous as the stars.”

The little prince was shocked!  Never before, in his entire life, had anyone dared insult or yell at him (except his parents, who did so freely).  The prince had half a mind to call his Royal Guards and have them arrest the boy ... but what good would that do?  He shook his fair head, and his flat hat with its four tassels shook with it.

At dinnertime, the little prince was still upset over what the village boy had said.  Finally he told his father, the Great Emperor, what had happened that morning.  The Great Emperor turned his head sternly and said, “It is not wise to let your subjects speak without reserve, especially children.  It will be those children who grow up and work for you, once you grow up and become Emperor.”

“What do you suggest I do, father?” asked the little prince, who was sitting upon a pile of leather bound books.  The prince always did this so he could see eye to eye with the Emperor and other important members of the Emperor’s council.  They all thought it was very clever of the little prince – and clever he was.

“I will send for the village boy this evening.  But it falls on you to decide his punishment,” said the Great Emperor. “Remember, your subjects reflect and react upon every decision you make, so make wise decisions.”   

The little prince thought hard.  He wanted the village boy punished, but the little prince didn’t want to do the punishing himself.  Often the Great Emperor sat on his royal throne and condemned subjects who had done wrong.  Unfortunately the little prince had never paid attention to the Emperor’s decisions – except for one time when a very cruel man had been sentenced to death.

But the little prince knew the village boy’s crime was not quite so villainous that he deserved death.  However, the little prince had to think of some punishment before the evening sun fell - a punishment that would make the boy respect the little prince next time.

Evening fell and still the little prince had not decided upon a proper punishment.  When the Emperor called his son to the throne room, the little prince hurried there, clicking his tongue and thinking nervously.  He worried for his heart, which beat so rapidly it might burst from his chest at any moment.

Yet the little prince looked nothing so nervous as the village boy did when he walked into the great throne room.  The village boy was holding his hat in both hands, ringing it as though it was full of water.  When the Great Emperor addressed him, the village boy trembled.

“Young citizen, you have committed great evil by mocking your future Emperor, and now you must face your crime as a proper subject should be willing to do,” said the Great Emperor.  

With that the Emperor drifted from the room, leaving the little prince and the village boy alone to stare at each other.  The little prince sat on his father’s tall, gold throne.  When he looked down, the village boy was trembling so furiously that the prince almost felt sorry for him.  “What have I done!” thought the little prince, beginning to panic.

Thankfully all the dreary days training under the stern royal court flooded back to the little prince.  An Emperor must not be weak!  So the prince squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and said, “Charged with the crime of offending the royal prince ... Do you find yourself guilty?”

“Yes,” the village boy managed to squeak.

Obviously the village boy was not subjected to the same cruel training that the young prince braved each day.  It took much more than a cruel face, a harsh punishment, or the death of a silly fish to bring tears to the prince’s eyes.  Truly, the little prince could not remember the last time his face was washed with tears.  Tears are a sign of weakness, and an Emperor must not be weak!

“I have decided your punishment!” the little prince declared at last.

The village boy fell to his knees, and pleaded, “Please be gracious young Emperor!  Please, spare my life!”

“I don’t want your life,” the little prince said. “But I want what is most dear to you.”

“What is most dear to me can not be taken,” the village boy said, much to the prince’s confusion. “It is not something material that can be passed from one hand to another.”

“I want it!” the little prince demanded.

“Perhaps you could have it ... But first, let me give you this,” the village boy told the prince.  Sorrow flooding his expression, the boy wiped his eyes and lifted a finger to his shoulder.

For the first time that evening, the little prince noticed a bright yellow bird sitting on the boy’s shoulder.  It was the plainest, most common thing the little prince had ever seen; yet it was so tame it hopped right onto the boy’s finger without being told. The little prince was amazed.  He watched hungrily as the village boy brought the yellow bird closer and let it hop onto his own shoulder.

“Please take good care of her,” said the village boy.

“Very well,” said the little prince, and added, “Remember not to offend authority so freely, next time.”

The village boy nodded, he bowed, then sadly slunk out the door.  When the boy was out of sight the little prince turned his head to look at the yellow bird.  It reminded him of the sun.

“I suppose I’ll have to make you a bed in my room,” the little prince told the yellow bird, which was called a canary.  And so they proceeded to his beautiful lantern-lit room, covered in silks and tapestries – all of which were quite expensive.  Yet no matter the beauty or the cost, none of it seemed to suit the yellow bird.

At last the prince gave up and threw his hands into the air.  He reached for the golden bell on his nightstand and rung it.  It sounded like the tinkle glass makes during a toast.  Instantly, the Royal Governor entered the chambers.

“Little Emperor, how may I be of service?” he said, and bowed low.

“Tell me ... What type of bed would suit this canary?” asked the little prince.

The Royal Governor pondered for a moment.  He stroked his pointed beard and said, “Perhaps a velvet cushion.”

So the little prince set a scarlet cushion on his bedside table, and set the canary on that.  But no sooner had the canary landed and chirped once, then it was off into the air, coming to land on the little prince’s shoulder once more.  Again the prince turned to his nightstand – but this time he selected the silver bell.  When this bell rung it sounded like wind chimes.  Almost at once, the Royal Chef marched into the chamber.  

He got to his knees, touching his forehead to the carpet and said, “Little Emperor, was your dinner inadequate?”

“That’s not it,” said the little prince, waving his hand. “I wondered if you knew what type of bed would suit a canary.”

“May I suggest an angel cake?  They are the softest and sweetest of all,” said the Royal Chef.

The little prince thought the chef was very smart and ordered an angel cake to be baked and brought to him at once.  When the cake was fresh out of the oven and allowed to cool for several minutes it was brought to the prince’s chamber.  Just as before, the little prince set the cake upon his bedside table.  This time the canary sat a little longer and pecked a few crumbs off the top before she flew back onto the prince’s shoulder.

Horribly frustrated, the little prince seized the copper bell on his nightstand and shook it furiously.  It sounded like water droplets.  In a matter of minutes, the Royal Horse Trainer entered the chambers.

The little prince had never the cause to ring the copper bell before.  He was quite shocked to see the Royal Trainer appear in his room wearing dirty boots and a filthy robe.  In fact, the little prince hardly thought it was worth his time to bother asking the man anything at all, yet –

“Little Emperor, please forgive my lateness.  How can I help?” the Royal Horse Trainer asked earnestly, with a bow.

“Well, I doubt someone of your intellect would know what type of bed would suit this canary,” the little prince sighed.

“A perch and cage would best suit your canary,” the Royal Horse Trainer replied.

Still skeptical, the little prince waved the Royal Trainer away and sent for a cage and perch.  When the items arrived they looked so common and ordinary compared to the rest of the ornate bedroom that the prince scoffed.  He didn’t even bother to set the perch on the table or hang the cage from the window.  Nevertheless, the canary flew straight into the cage and began to sing happily.  It was the most beautiful song the prince ever heard.

Immediately he had a dish of seed and a water fountain set inside the cage.  The prince spent the next few days decorating the cage with water lilies from the pond and deep green vines from the garden; then he covered the floor with cherry blossoms.  Whenever the prince looked out his window from that day on, the canary would perch on his shoulder and sing sweetly.  Day by day, the little prince grew fonder of his land, his people, and the bird.  Everything seemed idyllic when accompanied by the canary’s lovely voice.

   At first the yellow bird was shy, but soon became more affectionate.  The prince cared for the bird; he filled her food dish, refreshed the water, and played games of hide and seek together.  One day the prince was yelling at someone in the garden for doing something silly when the canary jumped upon his shoulder and nipped the prince’s ear – much to his anger.

“I am a prince!  You don’t bite princes.” He told the bird sternly, locking it away in the cage.

But the bird bit the prince many times after: sometimes affectionately, other times to wake him or remind him of bad things he had done.  Not once did the little prince smite the canary.

More time passed.  The bond shared by the little prince and the canary grew.  Soon everyone was talking about the canary and how it stopped the prince’s foul temper, and calmed him when he was upset.  Before long, everyone wanted his or her own bird.  

But of course, good things never last ...

Slowly the little prince began to tire of the canary.  It wasn’t that he didn’t love her – it was just that the canary never changed, and sometimes the prince wished to get away with things that the canary wouldn’t let him do.  Day after day, the bird acted the same old way, doing the same old things.  Because the little prince found interests elsewhere he progressively began to feed, water, and exercise the canary less.

The little prince was working at his desk one night, writing beautiful Chinese letters on a piece of parchment while the canary watched him, perched upon a lantern.  It was very late, the prince was tired, and his letters were starting to show it.  They became sloppier by the minute and frustrated him.

“Oh what am I to do?  Uncle is coming to visit on my birthday tomorrow and I wanted to give him this letter to show him how good at calligraphy I’ve become.  He would be so proud,” said the little prince, pouting.  Then he pounded the table with his fist and the canary chirped. “Why don’t you sing?” the little prince asked the bird.  

Unfortunately the prince had actually forgotten to feed the bird that day and she was so hungry that she could barely make a sound.  Even still, the canary worked up all her strength and let out a beautiful barrage of notes to ease the prince’s tension (for that is how much she loved him).  They worked well into the night.  The prince did not even go to bed; he fell asleep on his desk, pen in hand.

When the prince woke he saw that the letter was finished.  The little prince was so delighted he ran straight to his father.  As usual, the Great Emperor was drinking his morning tea and smiled at the sight of his son.

“Those are beautiful letters,” said the Great Emperor. “Did the little bird help you write them?”

“Well ... yes.  I suppose,” said the little prince, wanting all the credit himself.

“Go fetch her.  Your uncle will be here soon and he has heard so much about the bird” said the Great Emperor.  “He wants to meet both of you.”

Without hesitation the little prince rushed to his bedchamber and shouted, “Bird! Bird?  Where are you?  We are needed in the Great Hall at once.”  When the bird did not come, the little prince was furious.  “I’m warning you!  There’s no time for silly games.”

Still the bird would not come out.  Only when the prince went to fetch his pen did he discover where the yellow canary was.  She wasn’t hiding; rather she was lying on the table next to the lantern.  At first the prince was angry with her.  Normal birds didn’t lie wherever they wanted.  They went back to their perch and tucked themselves in their feathers.  He lifted the canary into his hands and ...

The little prince gasped!  Her head lolled obliquely, as though a mere thread attached it.  Quickly, the prince cradled the canary in his palm for support, and with his other hand he stroked her gently.

“Wake up,” he whispered in her ear.

A tremble sounded from below, shaking the floor.  All the doors were opening to make way for the Great Emperor’s brother.  There was a rushing of feet up the stairs.  Next thing, seven maids came knocking on the prince’s door asking to be let in.

“You’re late, you’re late!” they all cried. “Have you forgotten everything important?”

But the prince could not move, at least not until the poor canary did first.  He held her close to his face, unbelieving.  It couldn’t be true, but so many signs clung to the truth and wouldn’t let it go, paralyzed legs ... sleeping agate eyes ... bright yellow feathers ...  Only yesterday they flapped!

The outside riot died down.  Everything seemed dead ... Even the prince.  He stood rigid on the hardwood floor, holding the bird – and the only thing not statue-like about him were the tiny crystal tears, swimming down his face.  They splashed through the air, wetting the bird.  The prince prayed they might be tears of life.

“Things like that only happen in fairytales,” the prince told himself. “And,” – he sniffed – “And a prince must never, ever be weak.”

Oh, but he was!  Tears continued to stream down the prince’s face freely.  He finally realized that everything is weak.  Everything is fragile.  Everything needs love, hope, and care ... even princes and emperors!  And anything that didn’t need these things couldn’t possibly be alive.  

Or else they were hiding it.  The prince was taught to act dead the day he was born.

A knock came at the door, this time quiet and patient.  When the prince did not answer (and once several minutes passed) the knob began to turn.  The little prince begged it to lock – he wanted to be alone – but he couldn’t move either.  So the door opened.  

There, framed in the doorway, was a man with eyes that warmed like fire and burned bright with wisdom.  At first the little prince wanted the man to go away ... But with each step the man took, the prince felt drawn toward him, and when the man was only five steps away the little prince ran to embrace him.  For the first time ever, he and his uncle held each other.  It wasn’t the kind of embrace filled entirely with joy (as the prince would have preferred), because it was one of ultimate sorrow.

“What troubles you so?” the uncle asked.

There was silence.  Finally the prince managed to stop crying long enough to form words with his mouth.  “The canary ... she ... she’s –” But the little prince could not say it.  Instead, he wept. “I’m so lonely!”

“A prince should never be lonely,” said his uncle very wisely.  

It was exactly what the little prince didn’t expect to hear.  All his life he was forced to be strong and stand alone, and now this strange man was embracing him, and denouncing everything he was ever taught.

“Because lonely people turn angry and bitter ... or they give up on life completely.  And nobody, not even the Great Emperor, can make important decisions all by himself.”

Now the little prince understood the children from before.  He missed the canary’s song, the way it sat on his shoulder wherever he went, and even it’s painful pecks.  And worst of all, the bird had left when the little prince least expected it.

“There should be a law preventing death on my birthday,” he said. “It just isn’t right.”

“You never know when something terrible will happen, or when someone special might be lost forever,” said his uncle, pushing the little boy away so they could see eye to eye. “And that is why we must cherish everything, no matter how insignificant it may seem.  Never lose sight of what’s most important either.”

For a minute the uncle looked at the letter, which the prince had crumpled and dropped without even knowing it.  As the prince held the precious little bird in his hands, he realized how something so beautiful could be lost so easily.  He thought of all the little things he could have done to keep her alive.  

“But ... it’s too late,” the little prince whimpered.

“You wrong,” said his uncle, smiling. “It is never too late.  You can always ask something that dear back into your heart.  Love is forgiving.”

The little prince looked down at the canary.  In his heart he begged and pleaded for mercy and redemption ... Then, just like in a fairytale, the little bird came back to life.  She stood up, nipped the prince affectionately and sung her most beautiful song yet.  It brought tears to everyone’s eyes.  Side by side the prince and his uncle walked down to the Great Hall, with the bright yellow bird to guide them.
A story of growth though loving and caring for a pet, which eventually becomes an inseparable friend. A little emperor must become responsible and take care of his land and loved ones.

This short fairytale is dedicated to Kiwi, my bird, who just recently passed away.
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Recueille, avec tes mains si douces, mes sanglots

Cet Amour emporté par d'insondables flots,

Et sculpte avec eux dans ta douce pénombre,

Cette frêle Aurore médisant les décombres.
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I love the way your eyes always shine,
I love the way you wont let go,
I love the way you tell me you're mine,
I love the way it's easy to show,
That most of all, I just love you.

It's true, I love every inch of you,
I'll love you when it's hard to sleep,
When my thoughts are shades of blue,
I'll love you even when the blue skies weep,
And our garden burns around us.

I dont know what I would ever do,
If I made you ever cry,
I never want to ever hurt you,
I dont want this to ever die,
And I dont want you to ever frown.

I'm so weak when I am with you,
One look and your eyes paralyze,
I'm no one else when I'm around you,
I dont need a masking false disguise,
Because I trust you most of all.

Red and pink and white lined tradition,
Symbolize the greatest emotion,
Valentine's day is but a transition,
Another good way to show my devotion,
To you and us and even the blue,
Anything as long as It is with you.
i guess valentines day got me in the mood or something to write a love poem...

man its not even about any one...i just kinda started rhyming...

thats sad...i write love poems when i dont even love anyone...
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being scared isn't at all like being nervous. it is opening the refrigerator door at three am, closing it. falling asleep and not realising you have woken up. wanting to disappear completely, and realise you could probably do it if you tried hard enough; making yourself stuck in your own mind. it is realising you could tell all your secrets to every soul in the world, and in the end it is still only you, sitting in that room and waiting. alone.

everything becomes insignificant. any feelings you may have felt before. you don't even remember anymore why you were sprawled on the kitchen floor that night, drunk and crying. mumbling something about capsicum-monsters and sitting in the middle of the road and a car is coming. you probably haven't eaten for days, but in your mind it is still that moment and it keeps playing like a scratched cd.

you stop regretting that time you contemplated not braking, your attention slipping to the cracking red nail polish on your fingers.

it is like being scared but not at all. you feel like an elephant in a room. big and awkward, fumbling with the curtains. you try to make conversation but everything you say comes out backwards; then they look at you and you can only manage to comment on how you burnt the pizza because you forgot you put it in the oven.

that night there is a black out, and you feel your way around the house. feet sliding on the ground until you find the first step, hands caressing corners as if they are questions and someone is yelling at you to work it all out and then throw it away. it is like all of a sudden you realise what everything is for. you can recite the names of your bones, all two hundred & six of them - clavicle, carpal, spine, ribcage; and then you know nothing at all. you run through fields and are smiling, and then you are standing there and you feel like a deer who stopped just to see the headlights close up.

and that's all you do. one moment you are and the next you are not. you are lost in the galaxy of your mind, where shooting stars loop your thoughts in circles. you are standing there and you can feel each and every single breath enter your lungs and then pushed out, your blood beating through your skin and the way your spine is contorting forward, hunching like a flower ready to kiss the earth. you are standing there and you are not. you are and you're not.
you know, just when you're really fucking scared about something. and you feel so helpless and just lost when you don't know what to do about it.

so instead of doing something about it, i just sat here and wrote this all morning.
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Deadpool Facts:

In Pamplona, Spain, the people may be running from bulls, but the bulls are only chasing them because Deadpool put red dye in all of their shampoos this morning.

Deadpool sleeps on an adamantium bed because titanium was just too soft.

Crop circles are Deadpool’s way of freaking conspiracy nuts out.

Deadpool is over six feet tall, weighs two hundred twenty pounds, and can tell Wolverine to fuck off while patting the top of his head and rubbing his stomach.

They built the Great Wall of China to tell Deadpool that he wasn’t welcome there. He didn’t take the hint.

Contrary to popular belief, Deadpool, not the box jellyfish of northern Australia, is the most venomous creature on earth. Within 3 minutes of being bitten, a human being experiences the following symptoms: bloating, constipation, and the strange feeling that they have just been on a late night talk show, and the host just didn’t know when to shut up.

If he you ask Deadpool what time it is, he’ll laugh at you.

Deadpool drives an ice cream truck with a machine gun on top.

When Deadpool sends in his taxes, he sends a box. This box contains an armed explosive that will detonate in ten seconds after they open the box. Like Deadpool would ever pay taxes.

Deadpool can win a game of connect four in one move, because he cheats.

There is no theory of evolution. Just a list of living creatures that Deadpool forgot to kill.

Deadpool once at a 72 oz. bag of cheese puffs in one hour. He spent the first forty-five minutes having sex with the girl behind the counter ON the counter.

Deadpool doesn’t churn butter. He tells Spider-Man to do it by saying that “it’s the right thing to do.”

Deadpool doesn’t wash his clothes. He makes Weasel do it by saying “if you don’t, I’ll kill you.”

If you spell “Deadpool” in Scramble, you get that creepy feeling that someone is watching you.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool Deadpool once, and he’ll kick you in the crotch. If you’re lucky.

Deadpool has two speeds: Talk and Kill.

Once someone asked Deadpool what was on his mind. Historians have recorded this as the worst mistake anyone has ever made.

Everyone has to die once. Unless your Deadpool, then you have to die five times at least.

Deadpool doesn’t take showers, and he only baths if Bea Arthur and wine are involved.

In an average living room there are 1,242 objects Deadpool could use to kill you, including the room itself. Fortunately, no one has told Deadpool this.

Deadpool has to re-grow 2,000 body parts a year. If it’s a slow year.

Deadpool has a recording of himself talking for two hours. He sold it to the interrogation squads of most major militaries for a hefty profit.

Deadpool DOESN’T believe it’s not butter.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Deadpool is worth one billion. Too bad none of them are worth anything.

When Deadpool talks, nobody listens. They die.

Deadpool knows the exact location of Carmen SanDiego, and will sell the information to the highest bidder.

When taking the SAT, write “Deadpool” for every answer. You’ll fail.

Deadpool invented black. In fact, he invented the whole spectrum of colors. Except for pink. Wolverine invented pink.

Chuck Norris and Deadpool walked into a bar. The bar was instantly destroyed, as that much awesome cannot be contained in one building.

Deadpool doesn’t believe in the X-Men.

Some people wear Spider-Man pajamas. Spider-Man wears Deadpool pajamas.

I don’t own Deadpool, but if I did, three years from now if I asked you who Spider-Man was, you’d say “Spider-Who?”

Deadpool was once hired by a school to give a speech about why kids shouldn’t drop out of school. When he got on stage, he talked about the positive effects of pornography in today’s society and the different variations of yellow and orange you might find on both rubber duckies and dildos. Then he remembered why he was there, took his mask off, pointed to his face, and said, “This is why you should stay in school, you damned punks.”

No one who heard this message even thought about dropping out of school ever again.

When Deadpool goes to McDonald’s, he orders sushi. When they say they can’t give him any, he gives them more than their daily-recommended dose of bullets. When Deadpool wants raw fish wrapped in seaweed, he gets it, or else.

Deadpool doesn’t sleep- he procrastinates.

Deadpool makes Apple pay him 99 cents every minute he allows them to live.

If you have five dollars and Deadpool has five dollars, he’ll steal your five dollars so that he has more money than you.

There is no ‘Ctrl’ button on Deadpool’s computer. He ate it.

Some people can kill two birds with one stone, but Deadpool can kill twenty penguins with one shot.

Deadpool doesn’t have blood. He is filled with bullshit.

Deadpool doesn’t melt in your mouth or in your hand. Unless you happen to be Beatrice Arthur.

Deadpool is like a dog: He gets mud all over the carpet, annoys the neighbors, humps your leg and pisses where ever he wants to.

Proponents of higher-order theories of consciousness argue that the relation between two levels of mental states in which a higher-order mental state takes another mental state explains consciousness. If you tell this to Deadpool, he’ll shoot you for no reason at all.

Life is not, in fact, like a box of chocolates. It is more like a box of Deadpool. You may not know what you’re going to get, but you know it will be painful, and you’ll laugh anyway.

Everything King Midas touches turns to gold. Everything Deadpool touches goes insane and dies in a suicidal rage.

Deadpool wipes his ass with Cyclops’ secret stash of pornographic magazines.

They where going to release a Deadpool addition of clue, but the answer always turned out to be “Deadpool. In the library. With a knock-knock joke.

When Spider-Man read Deadpool’s original series, he cried himself to sleep. The next day he went out as Peter Parker to burn as many of them as he could find, for fear that Deadpool would become more popular than Spider-Man. This is why they are so hard to find.
These are bunch of Deadpool Facts I originally posted on They were a big hit, so I thought I'd bring them here.

They are modeled after Chuck Norris facts, but I've given most of them my only little special twist. I'm thinking about doing some more if I can find the time.
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