Guess who got a few extra things from AX even though I don’t need it.
END DATE: JULY 6 2014, 11:59 PST
So I’m doing a tiny giveaway, sorry it isn’t much. Had to go through the hustle and bustle of talking to each riot employee.
❤ Three Winners! ❤
• First place will be able to choose between-
- Dragon Slayer Pantheon
- Riot Ward Skin and a jinx/vi lanyard.
( I will pay shipping just make sure you’re over eighteen or your parent/guardian has no problem with you giving out your address. )
• Second Place can have whatever first place doesn’t receive.
• Third Place will get a Riot Ward Skin.
* You must be 18 or older if wanting the riot ward skin + vi/jinx lanyard. Or have your parent/guardians permission.
* You must be following me, this is for my followers. You can unfollow afterwards.
* Reblogs and Likes do count. I will be using a random number generator.
* If you don’t respond within 24 hours of me messaging, you do not receive your skin. These skins do have expiration dates which is July 11 2014, and I will send info to you right after you respond.
Thank you for reading and good luck!
END DATE IS- JULY 6 11:59 PST
Join my GA! I changed the expiration date to July, sorry for accidentally putting June. v.v;;
Why should I rise in the morning to greet a sun whose luminosity cannot reach me?
Why should I exit my home and aspire toward unattainable dreams that have been thrust upon me?
Why should I speak to a peer who has never expressed a genuine interest in my company?
Why should I consolidate energy that shall only be wasted in sustaining the delusional oneirocosm in which are contained my quixotic desiderata?
Why do I lie in bed and contemplate prospective success, despite the fact that I am not equipped with the requisite physical or mental capacities that would allow me to achieve it?
Why do I prosecute fervent enterprises to attain a spurious state of contentedness?
My God: Why do I live in a world for which I was never meant to exist?
Fain I am to say
In naught but the sincerest way
That your advent was a vicissitude
That offset my lassitude.
On a slow and boring day
Your person came to stay,
And a slow turn-of-foot
Revealed a countenance warm as day.
A visage so enchanting,
Like a voice commanding, “Harken!”
With a powerful brilliance in every ray,
Like the second sunrise of the day.
O, by an arrow was I bitten
That caused me to be smitten?
Nay, erroneous heart;
So ardently your hand seeks that mitten.
The fervent lapse of time
Marked by the closing sound of chimes
Saw Maturity’s muscles flex
In a beauty Junoesque;
It saw these eyes grow covetous
Of a girl topped by an auburn trees;
The presence of that guilty rationale
Is something I can and do confess.
At the very least, I would like an insanity that is ubiquitous and reparable, for the one with which I was bequeathed at birth was, and remains, the former’s antithesis.
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,–
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.
Why should the world be over–wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
|—||Paul Laurence Dunbar (via itsquoted)|
As vast as the ocean is thine hope;
As supernal as the moon is thy comeliness;
And as deep as the abyss within mine soul
Is my contrition for dreaming of thee.
|—||Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can’t Avoid (via liquidnight)|
“You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.
Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”
|—||Henry Louis Mencken (via itsquoted)|
|—||Calculus professor (via mathprofessorquotes)|
"Everyone loved her facetious belligerence, and the passion with which she spoke of anything that aroused her interest." The wistful voice of the vanquished soul softly found its way toward its attentive, though weary, listener.
“I heard that she was a capable and intelligent person,” said she.
“Yes, she was.” He gazed through the gaping hole in the ceiling toward the gingerly luminescent night-lights, and became imbued with a welter of emotions that could only serve to unnecessarily siphon the modest amount of energy left him by his unmerciful circumstances. “But, oh, God. Her true beauty she reserved for those quiet moments we spent together,” said he.
“How so?” inquired the girl with a hesitation that betokened a knowledge of the potential poignancy of the revelation such a question would elicit.
“She had a propensity to watch me and smile. Her smile was not the Junoesque smile that was so ubiquitous in her days; rather, it was one of gentle amiability, as though she was saying to me, ‘I’m happy that you’re here with me.’” A transitory pause interrupted the recollection, and was followed by a trite formula that nevertheless carried with it an undeniable power: “I miss her.”
A desolate wind took its cue, and began its reign of the decrepit city. Not a single breath of life, with the notable exception of the aforementioned two, was discernible upon the landscape. The calamity produced by the unpredictable volatility of Man had succeeded in establishing an irreversible silence upon the land.
She tried to respond with something meaningful, but could find nothing more apt than a simple apology.
“It’s OK. I should not dwell upon such things during these trying times, and I certainly should not do so while you are facing comparable afflictions.” A slight contrition for his inconsiderate lapse in judgement informed his voice.
“I like hearing about your past. It’s much more interesting than mine,” she said soothingly. “Certainly, I miss people, too. But I don’t think I can speak about anyone as you do about her.”
A pang of dejection struck him at the sound of those words. “Her loss was more of a tragedy to this world than was the latter’s superficial destruction, and even that is an understatement,” he responded with a small amount of indignation at the unfairness of his situation. He would have readily exchanged places with her, had that been a possibility.
She placed a consolatory hand on his shoulder, and gently encouraged him to lie down on the makeshift bed that lay adjacent to hers. “Sleep. Perhaps in your dreams, you’ll be with her again.”
He contemplated the prospect, and then spoke: “I would lie with her forever in a soft field of mercurial flowers, and I would look at her and give her the most sincere smile I could muster. And I would continue to smile even as she drifted off into a light slumber, and even as the tears flowed down my cheeks, for even then, in my stupor, I would know that none of it was real.”
Even after he had descended into a troubled sleep, she remained awake, staring at the stars that knew nothing of the world.
You intimated that our paths were still concurrent, though I know that the divergence of our lives is the only possible reality.
Perhaps the palpable sentimentality that informed the moment impelled you to speak thus. I do not doubt the sincerity of your words, but neither do I doubt the power of Time to dilute it as the days elapse.
I am flummoxed as to why I feel this way. I know with certainty that I am enchanted by the idea of you, but I cannot say the same for your actual being. If that is the case, then why do I allow myself to pine for you?
Could it be that I need your physical presence to foment this illusion I have of you?
This is all absurd. Within me, disjunct city-states are vying for the status of a legitimate impetus; within me is a maelstrom of disjointed thoughts, and a welter of paradoxes.
You were an unfortunate victim of my caprice.
And now, I have been left with no time to ascertain the reason, or the reasons, for why I conducted myself toward you as I did.
Nothing, however, shall allay my compunction about dreaming of you. I believe that that action was the precipitant for this fiasco of mine.
It is generally assumed that as one’s corporeal being matures, one’s mental faculties shall do so as well. Yet, as I sit here excogitating my life retrospectively, I can say that my mentality has tarried in its progression toward full maturity.
There is no dearth of childish petulance in my deportment, and that is lamentable, for such behavior is detrimental toward affiliations with others. Despite such knowledge, however, I deliberately choose to do nothing in terms of rectifying the issue.
This is but one of the many character flaws to which may be imputed my eccentricity, which sometimes comes off as insolence. I am capable of enumerating the vast majority of my flaws; I can ascertain the origin of each, and I can measure how conducive each was to the dissolution of my friendships. With the assistance of certain professionals in relevant disciplines, I may even be capable of determining the best way by which to correct such defects.
Yet, I choose to do nothing.
Actually, I do choose to do something: I actively condone my behavior, thereby ensuring its perpetuity.
But it is my petulance that restrained me from bidding her farewell; it is my petulance that overwhelmed my compunction about departing without so much as congratulating her for her success.
We looked into each other’s eyes for a fleeting moment at the conclusion of the day, and from so small an observation I was able to deduce that she expected nothing from me. The one to whom I gave my imprudent and reawakened heart in a flowerbed of mercurial yellow roses; the one to whom I extended a quasi-benevolence; the one from whom I received the most saccharine smiles expected nothing from me because I never truly gave her my heart, despite what I said earlier. No. I did not give to her my heart.
I gave to her a firm cynicism veiled by a crimson robe.
Never again shall she grace my life anywhere but inside the oneirocosm that I have produced in my mind. Never again shall she give me warmth with her mellifluous smile.
I will never see that beautiful human being ever again.
I miss her already.