Thread Funny Quotes

Y’all might as well come on out,” I said. “I know you’re there. I can smell you.” “Smell me? But I just took a shower this morning!” an indignant voice drifted out of the shadows. There was a loud sound, like someone was getting smacked upside the head. Then another voice let out a low mutter. “Shut up, idiot.

Totally drained he could only manage one but he made it a good one tongue included. “Delicious ” he murmured. “So depraved ” Colton muttered. “Thank you.” “Get off me.” “Mine ” “Stings.” “Boohoo.

We’re connected everywhere. Even before we met, we were all of us tied together with these funny little threads. I love those small hints that God brings people together and says, ‘Here you go. This one’s for you.

The Weaveress squinted at the loom. While any other person would merely see a thickset of colour-flashing Threads, Ærinna saw cosmic events, destinies and the collective soul of countless beings. Some of them were about to kick the bucket and kick it well. They weren’t to die of any expected natural causes either – unless one counted being “woven out of the Pattern” either natural or expected.

Hope was a funny thing. It kept you dangling by a thread until the last possible moment, even when the odds weren't in your favor.

Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You spend it waiting for that one blinding moment of clarity … that one magic thread that sews it all together. And then one day, you wake up an older thing than you ever thought you’d be, and you realize you’ve wasted your days looking for something that was never really there at all. There are no solutions in this life, Eamon. There are only moments in the sun … and moments in the shade … and the trick of it all is to understand where you’re standing before it’s too late to call it home. I wish you peace in the fields beyond, because you will not find it here.

A present. Wrapped in black crepe paper and tied with silver thread. And beside it, smiling down at me, was Rhys. He'd propped his head on a fist, his wings draped across the bed behind him. 'Happy birthday, Feyre darling.' I groaned. 'How are you smiling after all that wine?' 'I didn't have a whole bottle to myself, that's how.

As I look back on my own life, I recognize that some of the greatest gifts I received from my parents stemmed not from what they did for me—but rather from what they didn’t do for me. One such example: my mother never mended my clothes. I remember going to her when I was in the early grades of elementary school, with holes in both socks of my favorite pair. My mom had just had her sixth child and was deeply involved in our church activities. She was very, very busy. Our family had no extra money anywhere, so buying new socks was just out of the question. So she told me to go string thread through a needle, and to come back when I had done it. That accomplished—it took me about ten minutes, whereas I’m sure she could have done it in ten seconds—she took one of the socks and showed me how to run the needle in and out around the periphery of the hole, rather than back and forth across the hole, and then simply to draw the hole closed. This took her about thirty seconds. Finally, she showed me how to cut and knot the thread. She then handed me the second sock, and went on her way. A year or so later—I probably was in third grade—I fell down on the playground at school and ripped my Levi’s. This was serious, because I had the standard family ration of two pairs of school trousers. So I took them to my mom and asked if she could repair them. She showed me how to set up and operate her sewing machine, including switching it to a zigzag stitch; gave me an idea or two about how she might try to repair it if it were she who was going to do the repair, and then went on her way. I sat there clueless at first, but eventually figured it out. Although in retrospect these were very simple things, they represent a defining point in my life. They helped me to learn that I should solve my own problems whenever possible; they gave me the confidence that I could solve my own problems; and they helped me experience pride in that achievement. It’s funny, but every time I put those socks on until they were threadbare, I looked at that repair in the toe and thought, “I did that.” I have no memory now of what the repair to the knee of those Levi’s looked like, but I’m sure it wasn’t pretty. When I looked at it, however, it didn’t occur to me that I might not have done a perfect mending job. I only felt pride that I had done it. As for my mom, I have wondered what

It’s not funny,” I protested, but found myself laughing anyway. It was Lyonya’s gift, I’d already come to realize—he could bring laughter like a stray thread of sunshine to brighten even the most shadowed room.

But fate is a funny thing. It weaves its threads through the loom with steady hands. At first, the result is seemingly a distorted mess, but if one can wait long enough, the full picture comes into focus, the threads tightly intertwined, strong and true.

It’s funny how we try so hard to hide from the truth. We tell ourselves that it didn’t happen. We say it enough times that we start to believe it. We live in a lie that exists only for ourselves. But the Truth is still there—dangling above us, hanging on a very weary thread. Out of sight. Out of mind. Until the thread of our self-denial breaks, and the Truth comes crashing back down

She gave me a brisk I-know sort of nod. A hint of eau de cologne drifted from her neckline. A scent reminiscent of standing in a melon patch on a summer’s morn. It put me in a funny frame of mind. A nostalgic yet impossible pastiche of sentiments, as if two wholly unrelated memories had threaded together in an unknown recess. Feelings like this sometimes come over me. And most often due to specific scents.

Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You spend it waiting for that one blinding moment of clarity … that one magic thread that sews it all together. And then one day, you wake up an older thing than you ever thought you’d be, and you realize you’ve wasted your days looking for something that was never really there at all. There are no solutions in this life, Eamon. There are only moments in the sun … and moments in the shade … and the trick of it all is to understand where you’re standing before it’s too late to call it home. I

What did I do now?” He reluctantly pulled the car the curb. I needed to get out of this car – like now. I couldn’t breathe. I unbuckled and flung open the door. “Thanks for the ride. Bye.” I slammed the door shut and began down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard the engine turn off and his door open and shut. I quickened my stride as James jogged up to me. I slowed down knowing I couldn’t escape his long legs anyway. Plus, I didn’t want to get home all sweaty and have to explain myself. “What happened?” James asked, matching my pace. “Leave me alone!” I snapped back. I felt his hand grab my elbow, halting me easily. “Stop,” he ordered. Damn it, he’s strong! “What are you pissed about now?” He towered over me. I was trapped in front of him, if he tugged a bit, I’d be in his embrace. “It’s so funny huh? I’m that bad? I’m a clown, I’m so funny!” I jerked my arm, trying to break free of his grip. “Let me go!” “No!” He squeezed tighter, pulling me closer. “Leave me alone!” I spit the words like venom, pulling my arm with all my might. “What’s your problem?” James demanded loudly. His hand tightened on my arm with each attempt to pull away. My energy was dwindling and I was mentally exhausted. I stopped jerking my arm back, deciding it was pointless because he was too strong; there was no way I could pull my arm back without first kneeing him in the balls. We were alone, standing in the dark of night in a neighborhood that didn’t see much traffic. “Fireball?” he murmured softly. “What?” I replied quietly, defeated. Hesitantly, he asked, “Did I say something to make you sad?” I wasn’t going to mention the boyfriend thing; there was no way. “Yes,” I whimpered. That’s just great, way to sound strong there, now he’ll have no reason not to pity you! “I’m sorry,” came his quiet reply. Well maybe ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t good enough. The damage is already done! “Whatever.” “What can I do to make it all better?” “There’s nothing you could–” I began but was interrupted by him pulling me against his body. His arms encircled my waist, holding me tight. My arms instinctively bent upwards, hands firmly planted against his solid chest. Any resentment I had swiftly melted away as something brand new took its place: pleasure. Jesus! “What do you think you’re doing?” I asked him softly; his face was only a few inches from mine. “What do you think you’re doing?” James asked back, looking down at my hands on his chest. I slowly slid my arms up around his neck. I can’t believe I just did that! “That’s better.” Our bodies were plastered against one another; I felt a new kind of nervousness touch every single inch of my body, it prickled electrically. “James,” I murmured softly. “Fireball,” he whispered back. “What do you think you’re doing?” I repeated; my brain felt frozen. My heart had stopped beating a mile a minute instead issuing slow, heavy beats. James uncurled one of his arms from my waist and trailed it along my back to the base of my neck, holding it firmly yet delicately. Blood rushed to the very spot he was holding, heat filled my eyes as I stared at him. “What are you doing?” My bewilderment was audible in the hush. I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to speak anymore. That function had fled along with the bitch. Her replacement was a delicate flower that yearned to be touched and taken care of. I felt his hand shift on my neck, ever so slightly, causing my head to tilt up to him. Slowly, inch by inch, his face descended on mine, stopping just a breath away from my trembling lips. I wanted it. Badly. My lips parted a fraction, letting a thread of air escape. “Can I?” His breath was warm on my lips. Fuck it! “Yeah,” I whispered back. He closed the distance until his lush lips covered mine. My first kiss…damn! His lips moved softly over mine. I felt his grip on my neck squeeze as his lips pressed deeper into

There’s more, Anna. When we first got to California,” she says, “you asked me if I remembered your birthday party.” I nod, picking at a thread on her comforter. “I did remember. Matt was acting like such a space cadet that night after we got home – like he was floating. I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out, but of all the things that he could have been thinking about, you were the last – I mean, my mind just didn’t even go there. You were like our sister.” “But I–” “Wait – let me get this out.” She looks at me hard, her broken wing eyebrow trembling to keep the tears back. “After I brushed my teeth, I walked into his room. He was sitting on his bed, playing with that blue glass necklace he always wore, a big smile on his face. Remember the necklace?” The necklace. “Of course.” “I asked him what was so funny. He jumped a little, not knowing I’d been watching him smile there like a goofy little kid. He said it was nothing – just that he had fun at the party. And I believed him, all the way up until the day I read your journal. That’s when it all made sense. All the times he’d ask me about who you liked at school, or who wanted to take you to whatever dance.” She’s quiet as I digest her story, putting the pieces together to form a complete whole from the missing half that’s haunted me since that night – how did he really feel about me? Was it just one stupid moment, perpetuated a little too long, only to be forgotten as quickly as it came? As soon as he went away to school? “I was in love with him forever – since I was, like, ten,” I confess. “Yeah,” she says. “You both were in love. I know that now. We were all so close, you know? I just didn’t see it coming until I read your – I’m sorry, Anna.” I close my eyes, fighting back the image of her hand on my journal. “It’s okay.

Violet’s not getting out of our sight,” Arion adds. There’s a moment of just staring…like everyone is trying to silently argue. “No one naked in my car,” Mom states when I just stand in my spot, waiting on them to hurry through the push and pull. You really can tell how thick the air is when too many alphas are in the room at one time, but weirdly it never feels this way when it’s just the four of them. Unless punches are thrown. Then it gets a little heavier than normal. Arion pulls on his clothes, and threads whir in the air as I quickly fashion Emit a lopsided toga that lands on his body. Everyone’s gaze swings to him like it’s weird for him and normal for me to be in a toga. Awesome. Damien muffles a sound, Emit arches an eyebrow at me, and Arion remains rigid, staying close to me but never touching me. All of us squeezing into a car together while most of them hate each other…should be fun. The storm finally stops before we board the elevator, and it’s one of those super awkward elevator moments where no one is looking at anyone or saying anything, and everyone is trying to stay in-the-moment serious. We stop on the floor just under us, after the longest thirty-five seconds ever. The doors open, and two men glance around at Emit and I in our matching togas, even though his is the fitted sheet and riding up in some funny places. He looks like a caveman who accidentally bleached and shrank his wardrobe. I palm my face, embarrassed for him. The next couple of floors are super awkward with the addition of the two new, notably uncomfortable men. Worst seventy-nine seconds ever. Math doesn’t add up? Yeah. I’m upset about those extra nine seconds as well. Poor Emit has to duck out of the unusually small elevator, and the bottom of his ass cheek plays peek-a-boo on one side. Damien finally snorts, and even Mom struggles to keep a straight face. That really pisses her off. “You’re seeing him on an off day,” I tell the two guys, who stare at my red boots for a second. I feel the need to defend Emit a little, especially since I now know he overheard all that gibberish Tiara was saying… I can’t remember all I said, and it’s worrying me now that my mind has gone off on this stupid tangent. I trip over the hem of my toga, and Arion snags me before I hit the floor, righting me and showing his hands to my mother with a quick grin. “Can’t just let her fall,” he says unapologetically. “You’re going to have to learn to deal with that,” she bites out. She has a very good point. I don’t trip very often, but things and people usually knock me around a good bit of my life. The two guys look like they want to run, so I hurry to fix this. “Really, it’s a long story, but I swear Emit—the tallest one in the fitted-sheet-toga—generally wears pants…er…I guess you guys call them trousers over here. Anyway, we had some plane problems,” I carry on, and then realize I have to account for the fact we’re both missing clothing. “Then there was a fire that miraculously only burned our clothes, because Emit put all my flames out by smothering me with his body,” I state like that’s exactly what happened. Why do they look so scared? I’m not telling a scary lie. At this point, I’ve just made it worse, and fortunately Damien takes mercy, clamping his hand over my mouth as he starts steering me toward the door before I can make it…whatever comes after worse but before the worst. “Thank you,” sounds more like “Mmdi ooooo,” against his hand, but he gets the gist, as he grins. Mom makes a frustrated sound. “Another minute, and she’d be bragging about his penis size in quest to save his dignity. Did you really want to hear that?” Damien asks her, forcing me to groan against his hand.

[finding threads] I can do that. It's time-consuming and mind-numbing and it'll take my thoughts away from her, her bed, her naked in her bed. She told her dad she'd dated. Oh hey random thought I tried to forget about. Nice of you to sneak up on me like that.

Not safe," I say, wondering if only using very short, clumsy sentences is what he means by being special.

What was Fodor like? Funny you should ask that, as I had a little dust-up over at Daily Nous not long ago, with an old graduate-school friend, Samir Chopra, on the subject of Fodor, in a discussion thread about him, after he’d just died. It turns out that one thing I really liked about Fodor was what Chopra disliked the most about him, namely his (in my view) hilarious argumentative affect and manner. Some of the shit he would do in class and at colloquia was just legendary. One thing I remember was a philosophy of mind class, where a really wacko student – you know, the guy who everyone silently prays isn’t going to talk or ask a question – just said something completely bizarre – I think it was that material objects are “waves of probability” or something like that – and Fodor, looking tormented, staggered over to the wall, drew a square on it with a black marker, and began banging his head in the center of it, going “No, no, no….” I almost pissed myself, it was so hilarious. And the square stayed there long after, so you’d be in some other class, and people would ask, “Why is there a square drawn on the wall in marker?” and you’d get to tell the story and crack up all over again. Now Samir takes this sort of thing as evidence of just how what a meanie Fodor was and as representative of a kind of meanie philosophy that too many philosophers engage in, and he lamented how it “alienated” him. It was all very much in the mode of the current sensitivity-culture everyone seems to be in the grip of, which I just find humorless and precious and representative of everything about the current cultural moment that I can’t stand.

To tell the truth, I was beginning to think you would be in awe of anyone if you saw the parts of them that no one else gets to see. If you could watch them making up little songs, and doing funny faces in the mirror; if you saw them high-fiving a leaf on a tree, or stopping to watch a green inchworm hanging midair from an invisible thread, or just being really different and lonely and crying sometimes at night. Seeing them, the real them, you couldn't help but think that anyone and everyone is amazing.

Are we almost there?” I asked. “You won’t be sleeping on the beach tonight,” he replied. “Not unless you’re fool enough to insist on it.” “I don’t mind sleeping under the stars.” “Well, isn’t that what a legendary huntress always does?” He winked at me. “Or have you become someone else already?” He kept his teasing to a whisper. “Very funny.” “Put your quills down, little hedgehog, I’m not your enemy,” Argus replied. “I owe you plenty for what you’ve brought to this voyage. Thanks to you, I only felt like throttling Jason every second day. I wish I knew your true name so when I die, I can tell Hades, ‘See that girl? She’s sharp as a shark’s tooth, brave enough to battle the worst storm Poseidon could throw at her, and one of these days she’ll be as beautiful as a sunrise on a summer sea. So you tell the Fates to spin the thread of her life good and long, or you’ll have Argus to answer to!’” He chuckled. I placed my hand over his on the prow. “I hope the Pythia was wrong,” I told him. “Not because I like you, but so Hades doesn’t have to put up with you too soon.

If this is the book I think it is... I'm relatively certain it's human.' A hot, sour feeling rose in the back of Esther's throat. 'What do you mean, human?' 'I mean the thread looks like it could be a combination of hair and sinew. The glue is likely rendered collagen.' He pinched the cover between thumb and forefinger. 'The leather's probably human skin.' 'Okay,' Collins said, 'great, well, if you need me, I'll be outside screaming.

Fernando crouches next to one of the beds and takes out a box. He digs inside it for a few seconds, then picks up a small, round disc. It is made of a pale metal that I saw often in Erudite headquarters but have never seen anywhere else. He carries it toward me on his palm. When I reach for it, he jerks it away from me. “Careful!” he says. “I brought this from headquarters. It’s not something we invented here. Were you there when they attacked Candor?” “Yes,” I say. “Right there.” “Remember when the glass shattered?” “Were you there?” I say, narrowing my eyes. “No. They recorded it and showed the footage at Erudite headquarters,” he says. “Well, it looked like the glass shattered because they shot at it, but that’s not really true. One of the Dauntless soldiers tossed one of these near the widows. It emits a signal that you can’t hear, but that will cause glass to shatter.” “Okay,” I say. “And how will that be useful to us?” “You may find that it’s rather distracting for people when all their windows shatter at once,” he says with a small smile. “Especially in Erudite headquarters, where there are a lot of windows.” “Right,” I say. “What else have you got?” says Christina. “The Amity will like this,” Cara says. “Where is it? Ah. Here.” She picks up a black box made of plastic, small enough for her to wrap her fingers around it. At the top of the box are two pieces of metal that look like teeth. She flips a switch at the bottom of the box, and a thread of blue light stretches across the gap between the teeth. “Fernando,” says Cara. “Want to demonstrate?” “Are you joking?” he says, his eyes wide. “I’m never doing that again. You’re dangerous with that thing.” Cara grins at him, and explains, “If I touched you with this stunner right now, it would be extremely painful, and then it would disable you. Fernando found that out the hard way yesterday. I made it so that the Amity would have a way of defending themselves without shooting anyone.” “That’s…” I frown. “Understanding of you.” “Well, technology is supposed to make life better,” she says. “No matter what you believe, there’s a technology out there for you.” What did my mother say, in that simulation? “I worry that your father’s blustering about Erudite has been to your detriment.” What if she was right, even if she was just a part of a simulation? My father taught me to see Erudite a particular way. He never taught me that they made no judgments about what people believed, but designed things for them within the confines of those beliefs. He never told me that they could be funny, or that they could critique their own faction from the inside. Cara lunges toward Fernando with the stunner, laughing when he jumps back. He never told me that an Erudite could offer to help me even after I killed her brother.

Through threads and routines, you’ll be saying a lot of funny things, but whatever you do, don’t laugh at your own jokes.

He tips my face up with a gentle finger under my chin. “Can I kiss you?” I shake my head, but his lips are so close to mine that I can feel his breath. “Why not?” he asks. I push to the edge of the couch, because I really need to get away from him. If not, I’m going to let him kiss me. And I’m not going to want to stop. But when I move to get up, he wraps an arm around my waist and hauls me back onto his lap. I freeze, because my weight is on his good leg. “S-stop. I’m g-going to h-hurt you.” I don’t have anywhere to tap. He says softly but firmly, “I’ll let you know if it hurts.” With a gentle push of his hand in the center of my back, he brings me down to lie on his front, and my breasts squash against his hard chest muscles. God, I don’t think there’s anything soft about him. He palms my hip and hitches me closer and higher, bringing my lips to his. “A-all of my w-weight is on y-you,” I stammer. I close my eyes and take a breath. “I know, and it’s kind of awesome.” He smiles. “And so is hearing you talk.” “W-we’ve b-been t-talking all night.” “Not the same,” he whispers. “I’ll take what I can get, but I’d rather have you, exactly like this. Except naked, maybe.” He chuckles. I’m already naked. He just doesn’t realize it. I put my hands against his chest so I can push back, but he takes my fingers, threads them with his, palm to palm, and holds tight. “Kiss me.” I shake my head. “C’mon,” he teases. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so bad. “You know you want to.” He grins. I’ve kissed him before. Hell, I’ve passed him a condom before. But we never went any further. “You’ve never kissed me. You know that?” He lays his head back against the couch and looks at me from beneath lowered lashes. “I h-have so,” I sputter. “Nope,” he corrects me. “It was always me kissing you.” I’m certain I’ve kissed him before. “Kiss me,” he says again. He jostles me with a bump of his leg beneath my bottom. “Don’t make me beg.” He laughs, but it’s not funny. I

Don’t challenge everything which challenges you! Don’t take every funny challenge serious and don’t see every weak menace as a big threat, keep your energy for the powerful challenges, for the big menaces!

We’ll meet you at Ringrose’s Inn tomorrow for a late breakfast. Say, around ten A.M.?” Tristan barked a laugh. “What?” Jane asked. “Is that too late?” Now Dom laughed, too, and Tristan laughed even harder. “What’s so funny?” Jane snapped. “It’s not about you,” Lisette said dryly. “They’re laughing at me. My brothers think me incapable of rising early. Or getting off in a timely fashion.” “That’s because, dear girl, we have yet to see you rise before eleven or leave by noon for a trip,” Dom teased. Tristan grinned at Jane. “Better schedule that meeting in York for a bit later, Freckles.” Freckles. Tristan had dubbed her with the nickname during Dom’s courtship of her, and that reminder of her past with Dom and his family roused an ache in her chest. She avoided Dom’s gaze. “How about midafternoon then?” “Nonsense.” Lisette rolled her eyes. “I can rise early, no matter what my idiot brothers think. We’ll be there midmorning for breakfast if I have to dunk my head in ice water to accomplish it. Max wanted to get an early start, anyway.” Dom chuckled. “Max always wants to get an early start. But he’d have to have a different wife in order to manage that.” The two men nudged each other with smug looks. “Yes, he would,” Lisette said in a voice of pure sweetness, “one he wasn’t quite so enamored of. But since sampling my particular charms always takes him so very long in the morning, I admit that we do end up lying abed late more times than not.” Jane knew she ought to be shocked by such frankness, but she was having too much fun watching the men’s mouths fall open, and a red flush creep up their faces. Lisette flashed them a coy look. “But I shall endeavor to prevent my husband from enjoying his usual pleasures tomorrow morning. That should resolve the matter.” She threaded her arm through Jane’s. “Now come, my dear, let’s join the others for dinner. I’d love a glass of wine, wouldn’t you?” The two women had barely made it out into the hall before they burst into laughter. “That’ll teach…them,” Lisette gasped. “Did you see…Tristan’s face?” “And Dom’s,” Jane choked out. “Oh, Lord, you are so wicked!” “Why, of course.” Lisette’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “What’s the point of being a duchess if you can’t shock people from time to time?

The hidden time is an eternity that runs through every moment. It is all-time. The hidden time is a thread, and moments are the beads on the thread.

Ambrose should at least see what he’s missing. Jerk. Oh god, why doesn’t he want me that way? What did I do wrong? Buck-ass naked, with my pride hanging by the thinnest of threads, I raise my chin and meet my tutor’s eye. “Well? Any notes yet?” His mouth actually twitches. He finds this funny! I’m gonna kill him. “We could use an attitude adjustment, maybe. But then, some men like brats.

Through everything they did ran the strong thread of laughter. It was easy, comfortable, everywhere. They laughed at things they hadn't laughed at before, at things that hadn't been funny until they saw them together at the same moment. They laughed at the antics of the jerboa as it hopped before the night fire, carrying bits of bread to its mouse house, and at the grotesque complaints of their meharis as they were loaded in the morning, and at Moussa's imitation of an abbess he called Godrick- a thoroughly sacrilegious display that Daia only partially understood but which had her nearly in tears. For both of them, it was a time that passed much too quickly. All the while she knew he was not courting her, that he realized she was on her way to join her betrothed. There was no pressure on them and so they were able to be free, free to enjoy each other without other eyes or ears nearby to disapprove or to spread gossip, free to be silly and young, free to say whatever they liked, free to be alive.

Life’s a funny thing, isn’t it? You spend it waiting for that one blinding moment of clarity … that one magic thread that sews it all together. And then one day, you wake up an older thing than you ever thought you’d be, and you realize you’ve wasted your days looking for something that was never really there at all. There are no solutions in this life, Eamon. There are only moments in the sun … and moments in the shade … and the trick of it all is to understand where you’re standing before it’s too late to call it home.

I’m at the doctor’s office, and you know how funny they are about cell phones.” “They’re not funny about it,” Jerry said. “There are very good reasons for the rules against cell phones.

Let's never joke again. It's clearly not meant for us

I’ve lost my thread. What was I saying before that?’ Her tone was flat. ‘Marriage leads to murder.’ ‘Ah, yes. You know, the local vicar always advises against including “till death do us part” in the marriage vows, just in case there’s a killer in the congregation who sees it as a personal challenge

Right when I was about to close the computer and call it quits on torturing myself for the day, a new message pinged in the thread. Samuel had sent me a JPEG. I stared at it warily, knowing that from him there was a 50/50 chance it was either something horrifying or a dick pic though really, it was one in the same.