booty privileged wolf lady ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

booty privileged wolf lady ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

AnessaWolf. 19. California. Libertarian. Unofficial scorekeeper of the San Francisco Giants. Master of sick burns. Goddess of sarcasm. Wolf Queen.

I remember when his colossal, unmistakable presence on the mound used to illicit a trill of excitement to run down the column of my spine, when the horns of House of Pain’s “Jump Around” were an announcement to all that a master of his craft was about to demonstrate his prowess.

Back then, the light of his ocean blue eyes would dance playfully against the orange of his uniform; his tar black beard, majestic and proud against his pale skin, was full with confidence and brimming with, what we all secretly believed, magic. He was a misfit, an outcast, an enigma, but he fit perfectly into who we are and what we stand for; he was undeniably ours. 

When he fell from grace in 2012, we waited patiently for him to rise from the ashes, stronger than ever, like a glorious phoenix, but when he traversed the 381 miles south, leaving the fog and ocean behind for heat and deserts, we were devastated. The man who thrived on fear and lived on the edge for our sake was now betraying us for our bitter rivals; he traded his uniform and forsook his team, and he never looked back: baseball’s Benedict Arnold. 

Now his presence on the mound only brings me a sense of dread, and to many others, the rush of hatred. The horns that proclaim his entrance seem shrill and cacophonous. His stunning blue eyes, once full of mischief, are washed out and dimmed by the dark blue adorning his powerful body. The beard that once held magic, now far removed from the humid ocean air, looks dry and brittle from the desert sun. His skin is darker now from his acclimation to his new surroundings, as is his soul. Once a great star, he’s imploded under the weight of obscurity’s gravity and become a black hole.

He’s a stranger to us now; his once familiar name now a foreign language to our ears and a sin to utter. Brian Wilson is no longer ours. 


secret government agent: tell me right now, do aliens smoke weed

mulder: [tied to a chair in a dark room] i wont ever tell you this

secret government agent: *punches mulder in the face* what kind of weed do aliens smoke

mulder: *spits blood on the agent*

secret government agent: where can i buy this dank ass space weed

mulder: fuck you