So today during lunch someone had spilled their milk, and instead of cleaning it up, they turned it into a chicken.
All hail the chocolate milk chicken.
a magician asks you to pick a card - any card, in fact. you do. they ask you to put the card back in the pack - anywhere in the pack, in fact. you do. they walk away. ten years later, your wife gives birth to the six of clubs. “is this your card?” the midwife asks, in a familiar voice.
what the fuck
The amount of questions Bastille asks in their songs really stresses me out
are you gonna age with grace? do you like the person you’ve become? can you fill the silence? how am i gonna be an optimist? how am i gonna get myself home?
like idk dan you figure it out