Heres to you
This year hideo kojima is on gamescom in cologne, lots of awesome phantom pain stuff usw… I rly wanted to go to the convetion,it was a little dream of mine, I even had the ticket, my aunt gave it to me. And again I was to scared,that stupid little devil on my shoulder said “You dont need this shit, stay at home, just think of all the crowds, and the bad air.. you sure will slump. bla bla bla”
And now Im sitting here in my living room and saw that photos of Kojima and a bunch of awesome cosplayers, even a little mantis, in front of the awesome Jeep at the MGS area, And im jealous, dissapointed of myself and just depressed…OH and Angry of course..about myself. Maybe it sound hilarious to you, but it rly makes me sad. Maybe someday I will manage it
I have to say, that I rly hate it, when people bashing others for their art. Mostly because its a pairing they dont like, or something, that doesent fit to the char in their sight. But guess what? DO what ever you want and what makes you happy, and if you dont like it, ignore it, dont look at it, but plz stop making peolpe feel bad for things they love. I know that, because I have OCs wich I mostly ship with canons. Baaaaad mojo…very bad mojo…but thats okay, I like it, thats the most important thing. And if I want to ship Mantis with a bottle of coke, I would do that.
And now excuse me, while I ship mantis and a coke…
Do what makes you happy, drink enoughe during the hot weather an bye!
Skull face with “party people” <3333
My village had an oilseed field and a fine factory. Every day my friends and I would see our parents at work in that factory. That’s all I had. All the world I knew. Then one day, aircraft came droning in from some far-off sky. The factory was bombed. Some… “spies” had told them we were making weapons. The building burned. We tried to flee outside. The crowd blocked the exit. The crowd of people. Hot. So hot. I tried to push through their legs and get ahead, but a boot in my stomach put me on the ground. The smoke of them burning filled me up. I heard my name called… but not for long. At the infirmary they carried me to, a nurse in the corner saw me and remarked, as if it happened every day: “They should let the poor thing die.” Those are the only words of my mother tongue I remember. It was the language of my village. Until foreign troops invaded. Then the last identity I had left - the words I spoke - were pulled from me. My skin would never feel anything again. This face would be burned again, in torture, at foreign hands, but I, I still writhe in that burning factory. Doused in scalding rapeseed oil.