Lucky Once
GHEE . may
In Li, : fail
Illegal, 1 MII
EIS
I knew 111 waif
lla! . are if
In Li, : fail
Illegal, 1 MII
EIS
I knew 111 waif
lla! . are if
...
| |
Anonymous comments allowed.
84 comments displayed.
#64 to #4
-
greyhoundfd (03/27/2015) [-] >Realizing that the wolf could come through the window and get her right there and then, but doesn't so it can relish her fear.
#25 to #1
-
howtostrokeabook (03/27/2015) [-] i am loving this, please post more of this funny fat man
#97 to #79
-
notafetus (03/27/2015) [-] I'm sorry but I honestly have no idea. I found it and saved it once. All I can figure is it is a similar artist to this fc08.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2014/233/7/5/let_me_ceep_you_safe_by_undefined1912-d7w2doq.jpg
#96 to #8
-
commissarcrunch (03/27/2015) [-] this looks familiar, guess you should add me to the list of people who need source and are too lazy to find it themselves
#100 to #8
-
Anonymi ONLINE (03/27/2015) [-] Artist is Chiara Bautista
www.facebook.com/chiarabautistaartwork
You need to login to view this link
commissarcrunch pizzaweed totolord
www.facebook.com/chiarabautistaartwork
You need to login to view this link
commissarcrunch pizzaweed totolord
#2
-
meringueluka (03/26/2015) [-] or, she could buy a shotgun. and then she'd never have to worry about the wolf.
#121 to #2
-
ThatsSoFunnyHeHe (03/27/2015) [-] When I was taking a Spanish class in high school we had to read a Spanish version of little red riding hood where she had a gun and, if I remember correctly, shot the wolf nine times. It even had a picture printed on it of the little girl with a pistol standing next to the wolf-grandma.
#70
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] "The wolf only needs enough luck to find you once." I knew what this entailed. The devil was in the details. I knew. I had met him. Dodging deep dark demons evoked throughout the night was a dangerous task. Slipping your way through danger, to avoid the big problem that could end it all. I felt like every day and night was a drunken struggle to avoid the wolf, to avoid the responsibility of pain and acceptance that I was a burnt out chump closer to shooting himself in the had rather than dodging the wolf for one more day and slipping further down the rabbit hole.
Looking at the content, sitting in my chair, the TV blaring static and the stench of spilt scotch all over my wooden floor, I got to thinking; the wolf was subjective. It was always a personal conflict. You had to be vigilant every day, for whatever reason. For some it was sanity, for others, love, and for me, it was a mix of the two, and many other things. The wolf could come in all shapes and sizes; either way he'd still have those teeth to tear you apart.
I knew, passing out in my chair, the wolf would be waiting for me tomorrow, and the next day, like a demon waiting to feed. I could see the condensation of my window, overlooking 42nd street, knowing it was waiting for me, in trashcans, alleyways, and the twisitng maze of Hoboken, in the New York tunnels of my own mind.
"Oh but you must travel through those woods again and again." I had been travelling the same dark paths laden with contorted trees and broken frames for years. I was no stranger to past mistakes making present interruptions. But I'd go on, with a belly full of painkillers and a head full of doubt, I'd go on through the woods, waiting for the wolf once again.
Looking at the content, sitting in my chair, the TV blaring static and the stench of spilt scotch all over my wooden floor, I got to thinking; the wolf was subjective. It was always a personal conflict. You had to be vigilant every day, for whatever reason. For some it was sanity, for others, love, and for me, it was a mix of the two, and many other things. The wolf could come in all shapes and sizes; either way he'd still have those teeth to tear you apart.
I knew, passing out in my chair, the wolf would be waiting for me tomorrow, and the next day, like a demon waiting to feed. I could see the condensation of my window, overlooking 42nd street, knowing it was waiting for me, in trashcans, alleyways, and the twisitng maze of Hoboken, in the New York tunnels of my own mind.
"Oh but you must travel through those woods again and again." I had been travelling the same dark paths laden with contorted trees and broken frames for years. I was no stranger to past mistakes making present interruptions. But I'd go on, with a belly full of painkillers and a head full of doubt, I'd go on through the woods, waiting for the wolf once again.
#179 to #160
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] auesis pointed towards me with a drunken, shaky hand and laughed. "Now THAT is how it's done!" He turned, screaming at the armies of trolls, damaging Walton's like children as people egged them. "Keep trollin', I'm edgy because I know you're trolling and people are pissed off because you're doing it." I turned from my regular spot, the same place I'd been stuck to for about five years and thanked auesis as he threw he empty glass towards the junction room floor, a thousand tiny shimmering fragments spread across the black, boot-tarnished wooden floor and the trolls and like-for-like morons turned to him and asked him why he was so mad.
I gritted my teeth, put an arm on his shoulder and spoke: "They're not worth the aggravation."
I offered him a drink, and a chance to ignore the people that made Walton's that little bit worse. If we ignored them, if we didn't think about them, they would never happen, never win.
I gritted my teeth, put an arm on his shoulder and spoke: "They're not worth the aggravation."
I offered him a drink, and a chance to ignore the people that made Walton's that little bit worse. If we ignored them, if we didn't think about them, they would never happen, never win.
#182 to #123
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] paraplegicdinosaur slumped down next to me and auesis. " ******* morons, the lot of 'em," he said, his arm raised to point at the trolls and *********** destroying the junction room. I wasn't paying attention. It was hard keeping your attention on the ball when both of your eyes were focused on the bottom of a glass. Scotch ran through my veins; my blood type was at least fifty percent Jamesons or Jack Daniels, whatever people were buyin' me these days.
I offered paraplegic my second scotch, warm, no ice as Marty was running low, and the three of us shared a drink, ignoring the noises from the other room like a bad headache or a child whose attention was low.
I offered paraplegic my second scotch, warm, no ice as Marty was running low, and the three of us shared a drink, ignoring the noises from the other room like a bad headache or a child whose attention was low.
#74 to #71
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] iamkagji was like many other pinnacles of sobriety; a worthy man who had followed the rules, and had done well in the process. He had no reason to let the drink consume him, like drowning in an ocean voluntarily. He was the kind of man to pilot ships through scotchy waters and save others without the need of recognition.
I felt glad knowing there were people like him in the world to balance out the bad ones like me.
I felt glad knowing there were people like him in the world to balance out the bad ones like me.
#185 to #119
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] monkeysniper told me I should write a book once. Walking with me as we went down 45th street, the overview of Central Park nearby, the snow cascading the skyline with white, as if below the hulking architectural designs the devil was brewing something hot, steam rising, mixing with the clouds high above.
I should write a book, I thought. "I tried writing some stuff...a long time ago. Nobody liked it." Original content they called it. I tried my hand at some of it, but nobody seemed to enjoy my narration as much as I thought. I was always happy in the company of monkeysniper, a man propelled so high by his own niceness, that any attack of badness was like a pin against bricks; he was a good man and I thanked him for his compliment as we stumbled to the next bar in Noir York, the concocted stew-barrel of alcoholics, junkies, and horrors beneath the surface.
I should write a book, I thought. "I tried writing some stuff...a long time ago. Nobody liked it." Original content they called it. I tried my hand at some of it, but nobody seemed to enjoy my narration as much as I thought. I was always happy in the company of monkeysniper, a man propelled so high by his own niceness, that any attack of badness was like a pin against bricks; he was a good man and I thanked him for his compliment as we stumbled to the next bar in Noir York, the concocted stew-barrel of alcoholics, junkies, and horrors beneath the surface.
#161 to #74
-
HailtotheKing (03/27/2015) [-] ...God damn I wish I was as good at writing as you are.
#176 to #161
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] "I wish I was as good at this as you were," said HailtotheKing, his voice soft, filled with admiration. Looking back on myself, as if looking through all the faded, cracked remnants of a mirror, I realized my world was an intermittent fragment of narration, of coming close and then failing, slipping from what I once was, but at least I could turn a phrase.
You can. You just gotta believe.
You can. You just gotta believe.
#184 to #83
-
maxpaynenarration (03/27/2015) [-] Stepping out to be embraced by the wintered arms of Jack Frost, I found myself feeling the cold a lot worse, considering I was drenched in blood-warming alcohol that sped through my veins like heroin. sphincterface patted me on the back as he walked out for a cigarette. "God you're ******* awesome," he said with a hearty chuckle.
I nodded with a smile. Was I? Looking back on myself like I always did, I didn't feel so awesome. What kind of world was I living in? In the land of the glass, the metal-man is king. I felt like I could shatter anything. I was a damaging force. Pride was not my ally. I had no illusions. I was not one of the good men. I was a burnt out husk, spewing forth bad narration like an intoxicated James Patterson, or a low-rent Shakespeare whose best years had slipped down the side of a Kong bottle. People like paraplegicdinosaur knew this, and yet they had nothing but nice words for me.
Some people made it better. He was one of them.
I nodded with a smile. Was I? Looking back on myself like I always did, I didn't feel so awesome. What kind of world was I living in? In the land of the glass, the metal-man is king. I felt like I could shatter anything. I was a damaging force. Pride was not my ally. I had no illusions. I was not one of the good men. I was a burnt out husk, spewing forth bad narration like an intoxicated James Patterson, or a low-rent Shakespeare whose best years had slipped down the side of a Kong bottle. People like paraplegicdinosaur knew this, and yet they had nothing but nice words for me.
Some people made it better. He was one of them.
#131 to #5
-
tarabostes (03/27/2015) [-] I think if you were the red riding hood it would be more like "who takes the 1st bite"
#103
-
thechosentroll (03/27/2015) [-] Moral of the story: Buy a gun, so when the wolf finds you, it'll wish it hadn't.
#38
-
haeckal (03/27/2015) [-] This is actually something the Irish Republican Army once said after a failed bombing in 1984:
"Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always."
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brighton_hotel_bombing
Apparently the Irish are actually talking wolves.
"Today we were unlucky, but remember we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always."
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brighton_hotel_bombing
Apparently the Irish are actually talking wolves.
#12
-
devilofscience (03/26/2015) [-] "And then you'll maybe scratch him behind the ear and rub his belly?"
