INVESTIGATIONS MEMES IN CELEBRATION OF INVESTIGATIONS TRANSLATION/RELEASE!!!

i gotta clear out my ideas folder for these things, so probably more coming soon

The Arab Alchemist by Sevens-D

My holiday cards for this year! ✿‧₊˚.

This year's christmas card!

Three Rasmalai theory

The rights and wrongs don't mean addictions to wrong ones will mean lie. What is apparent of lie? Lie. What is the God of your lie? If justice meant the happenings of God and the wreck of humor that is law? If the justice meant lies that suddenly shape us in humor. We silence wrong. We mean theory. There were three Rasmalais. There were men. If wrong means justice, then happening meant loving rivers in the shapes of us. She wrought. Crying rivers don't bring justice. Files do. What is wrong is wrong. We happen. A girl happens. What is the right of man? If law books mean fate. Theories don't mean wrong. He killed a man. What is the right that needs explaining? If a work of man gets stolen, he is nice. Then? A feminist theory spring into motion. What if the wrong of man wrought life. Right. A need in time. What is the mother asking the court to do justice before her is a son? If a mother wrote happenings of dead and nicest things happen to her? Why? Is law necessary? Why do we falter? If marriage meant the start of birth? If I swerved a death in time. If the necessary law spring into motion, she. If we love and steal sweets, why? There were three Rasmalais and she ate one, so? Are words confusing, is theory in fact? How can you wrong before eyes. The law does justice to needy. Her mother wrote a wrong judgement and he ate one Rasmalai, how many left, two. If forgiveness meant the opposite of theory, she embodied this very paragraph I wrote of theory. What is a proposition? What is steal? What is yours? What is law? What is back-gaslighting, you do, know the meaning of lie, if it's you, what's wrong, you know? We silence men in war but not him. What is an unfit judge. We honor after fate and look after glory? Of whose, God, her, justice? Is she? If yes? Lie, broken love of her mother brought her on streets and she died. How is her mother wrong? You buy an average Saree and the quality is. Cheap in terms of rate and they made it like stone. If the wells of men knew abuse in chartering books she wrote with eyes, is she the honor of beautiful, so we honor her? Her beauty is an ace? How to turn beauty into your advantage? Is she a girl thought that she could win? Is lukewarm wrong, if yes, then how? If we started war and liked strangers, if it mans a war, how is it gaslighting? How is it war? How can you sing, you know, sing? How can you lie? In three Rasmalais, how many did you eat? If people should get credit, why are you praising God? If average meant the breadcrumbs you leave to find a story end satisfactory? If we find honesty to be win? She understood. How is it that you twist every favour of yours into cheating? And now, you want more. How? If wrong is wrong. You know it. Punishment. If it meant solving a case of honor, do we punish him? If corection is a stance, then who are we as people? If romance is the whirl of rape, is it a story? Is it true to the end? If repetition meant the right of lire, then who are we, are we murderers or vile? Are we right in finding three Rasmalais to be true? Truth is even your body knows like the life knows death in her eyes. Her.

For instances that happened, if you know a whirl. You know. There is a girl. Of respecting her is right. Of dying her colour in your sprint was your war. Take her to find heaving mothers at sight and she knew the daint of moon and gasps, but you? Are we different of pain and pyre? Of lie, she got a degree in maths, and then, she took hopes of becoming a doctor, did she? She knew. She knew the art of artery and knew lenses like moons. She works at a bakery. It dies to know. The dance of love. The art shops of night that wrote in conquest of honor, her. The methods of her. In painting theory of her. She wrote and existed in the moon there. If wrongs meant a person. Then? If a selfless portrayal is an actress lie. Is the hem of you, her? We are knit and dozed in the life of heaven. If the wrong meant time? If the hell bent money over her to garner death in time. In the happening, life is the hectic dance of her. Busy lives. Beginning loves. Telegu movies begun hearts in her. Eye forms, she births. We are so different of lies. I started to form wars of death. No amount of corresponding death knows her heart. My friend of gust wrote clat and passed. But do we know law? Do we know right? Of hers. Practice of a doctor. Practice of a lawyer, into life. Is a thing of death in time, of time? If lies happened, do they matter? No. Do they better to dead when time stopped of air and asked death, death took? Is asked none? Her. Is it time that asked, what of what? Whose to what? Is the war of time, a hoove? A dearth in time? He imagined artery of hearts and death sins in her. What of courage in you, took steps to become her, her night in war, so you understand her. If we are different in a matter which cannot be formed, stated, her? Is greatness a lie? She knows her docter-y. He knows his sweets. He knows his courage and he knows money will solve. So does, he buys a car. If they made bad sweets, you ate, whose, is it? Who were you before her? Did you rape or die to your sins? Or etch. Did I do something worthwhile, of a cause greater than a cover story? Of you, is a story war? The war ended. Her. We are equal not. Not only are we equal, but our time. If we took more time in the lie, is the ghost of lie in us. So what if we are different? Yes, prowess. Yes, lie. Yes, life. What can amount death and what can amount to lies of whole, what is the satre addiction that is? Is there a repercussion for bad education, and bad lies from mouth that spread a teacher's death, he was bad and died, hence, what? What he did was wrong, hence punishment, but what of theory? What is the average ratio to lie of honesty and what is her? What in theory is a fact? Rasmalais at weddings were them? Three Rasmalais. Like Three Idiots movie. What of lie, they mean every love song to you. What if love dances and dies? A construct of a great person, what if we never amount to them? If the lie from her mother is the nicest death in swollen soil.

So there was an owner and a tenant, he wrote an agreement and took. He was the knowing fact that intellect varied from person to person. If I divided land based on the capacity of man, they would win. They know. On the other hand, the average man wouldn't? If you pose a question to the man, they would understand ambiguity in understanding, hence won't. Posing questions like the wind and posing wind like God, tell us lies. What is know, truth, perhaps, wind. I ate three Rasmalais and I ate. I wrought. There was a dance competition and this girl knew dance. She danced. Ate stunned like fire.

There was God. There were Ill. Her mother went missing, I was the night shade that took moons to foray nights and found her, in my darling heart. If I loved him. Ache. They refused to check down cameras and gave away footage. She knew. Why do we refuse to help? Why do we seek, what's more important than a child? If you can feel bad and not give, then what, give in what, what right? She could have found her mother. What's right? No right or fight you wear on a moon. If you take a lover from him, he would die. That's father. If you are not, then. What is help, do you know? She would go strangling on the streets and find her mother. That's wringing. If right and wrong sounds like what poets do, and they write your fates for you, then what are you? Please, God. Help. As in what do you love to stay in, a house or a bungalow? If you think, we weep into the laughter of sons dying, then you are wrong. We write.

Sunidhi

Damian Wayne comes across a classic christmas carol known well among the children of gotham… pt [1/?]

Yoooooo!!!!

Gonna do the other robins but also Tim stumped me so bad now his portrait is extremely more detailed than I wanted it to be AHAHQHSHQC

airplane tickets should be free if you have internet friends you reaaaaaaally want to hang out with

Jason finds out what Bruce really thinks of him when Poison Ivy’s latest batch of pollen compels its victims to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. No, Dick, not quite truth serum. More like “spewing whatever’s on my mind right now” serum.

Bruce has just finished sharing the fact that he’s never tried Hot Cheetos yet desperately wants to, despite the shit Alfred would give him and the heartburn it would probably cause. He’s clicking and clacking away at the Batcomputer, trying to synthesize an antidote before he admits something more embarrassing than the time he made out with Oliver Queen in a broom closet at boarding school.

That’s when Jason has a bright idea that he’ll regret later.

“What do you really think of me?”

The response is instantaneous, given with no hesitation. “Baby. You’re my baby.”

Jason glares at the older man. He’s found a way around the pollen. Miserable fucking—

“Dick,” Jason snaps. “What do you think of Dick?”

“Acrobat baby.”

“Tim.”

“Sleepy genius baby.”

“Damian.”

“Youngest baby.”

“Duke.”

“Sunshine baby.”

This is getting him nowhere. Time to think outside the box.

“The clone boy,” Jason growls. “Kon or whatever.”

Bruce levels a flat look at his son. “Superman’s baby.”

“The little speedster fucker Tim hangs out with.”

“Fast baby.”

“Me.”

Bruce smiles warmly at him, and Jason curses internally when he sees none of the tells that usually indicate lies. “Bookworm baby.”

Jason curses again. This isn’t going how he thought it would, and now Bruce is looking at him the same way he does when Damian actually acts his age and falls asleep on the couch, face innocent and adorable. Fuck.

“Fuck you, I’m not a baby,” he grumbles. He could kick himself for not thinking of a cutting remark or a venomous barb, but Bruce is just staring like he wants nothing more than to wrap him up in his old Wonder Woman jammies and read him a bedtime story. Is this pollen making the old man sappy? Ugh.

“Move over,” Jason barks. He pushes Bruce out of the stationary chair in front of the Batcomputer. “Might as well help you with the damn antidote.”

Press, holding a microphone too close to Tim’s face at a gala: how are you settling in at the Wayne’s now you’re officially adopted?

Tim, with a confused face: What do you mean? I’m not adopted.

Press: ..What? No, you were adopted-

Tim: Bruce gave birth to me.

Bruce, behind Tim, nodding: Obviously.

Tim's love language is just putting his body weight,resting his head on their shoulder,just laying on someone to show platonic love (he's just like me)

Me, starting a video that says it's going to explain how Victorian poorhouses fucked up the concept of charity forever: ok, show me what you've got

Video: it starts with the ideas of the Christian philosopher --

Me: DON'T SAY IT DON'T FUCKING SAY IT

Video: -- John Calvin

Me:

Who (he asks, half to piss you off and half because he genuinely doesn't know)

You can't piss me off with that question, because unless you were raised like I was - deeply religiously and within an Evangelical Protestant family - you will probably have never heard of John Calvin.

In short: John Calvin was a French theologian during the Protestant Reformation. He was a philosopher in the same way that ebola is a living thing, or the same way that C4 on a bridge revitalizes a riverfront. If you're familiar with the way that many people say that Reagan is to blame for everything shitty about modern American politics, well, they're half right.

A lot of it is actually John Calvin's fault, but that's just because his shit philosophies are responsible for ~90% of the shit you hate about American life, period.

One reason I am so defensive of C.S. Lewis is that he hated John Calvin with the burning passion of a thousand stars in supernova. The man was not right about everything, but he was EXTREMELY correct about that.

Tim: Oh, Damian's tried to kill me lots of times.

Tim: There was one time when we were younger, he disguised himself as a case file, because he knows I love case files.

Tim: So I went to pick it up to work on it and he took off the disguise and went 'MBLEGH it's me!' and stabbed me.

Damian: *smiles fondly at the memory*

Dick: Damian, no stabbing your brothers.

Jason: There's a more important issue here. How the fuck was he disguised as a case file -