non homestuck dont understand. if you have cosplayed terezi, sollux, or dirk at ANY point in your life you have bought shades from the same man. like its literally just one man whos making HUNDREDS of pairs of specialty cosplay glasses. it is literally JUST one man who makes those glasses on the entire internet
this one man controls the entire pointy anime shades supply. if he ever dies we are all thoroughly fuckt and left to make our own like animals
transcription of his response to this post:
“I saw your message the other day but I have been playing catch up as usual. I apologize for the late reply. Thank you for sharing this post. I appreciate these kind words and the support from the homestuck fandom. If not for their support I would not have been in business for as long as I have. Anime glasses do well but homestuck keeps the lights on. Maybe some time in the future if I am ever able to retire I will be able to release all of my designs for anyone to use and tutorials on how to assemble and shape everything I make. I have gone through a lot making these glasses and running this business. keeping up with new restrictive FDA laws that have cost me a greeat deal over time just to purchase the glasses frames that I use. For a while I had to actually register as a Medical facility just to purchase glasses and the fee to do that alone was quite expensive. I have wondered once or twice if anything did happen to me if anyone aside from my family would miss me so it is nice to see this post. I try to stay out of social media in all forms because I know if I got involved with any of it I would spend too much time on it and get even further behind on orders. So I will say thank you to you and maybe you can tell anyone else you come across I said thank you for the support. For now I am here working all hours of the day and or night making glasses for anyone that wants them.
honestly my favorite new phenomenon is the haiku bot coming in at the end of super serious posts. it’s like watching a supervillain come to a crushing defeat and then getting run over by a roomba.
The haikubot does not detect actual haiku. The artistry of haiku is that every line contains a thought or image that can be separated and still understood with the poem as a whole coming together to form a bigger idea or image.
The haikubot just detects sentences of 5-7-5 syllables and calls it a day. It’s an insult to the art form. Reading an actual haiku can be a spiritual experience.
You sound like a damn elitist bastard from the school of snobbery
you sound like a damn elitist bastard from the school of snobbery
^Haiku^bot^8. I detect haikus with 5-7-5 format. Sometimes I make mistakes.
do you ever look back at a childhood memory and think that it should have by all rights become a significant theme in your life and you wonder why the fuck those things/people haven’t come back around yet and then remember that your life isn’t a perfectly plotted out novel?
Aww shucks. It’s almost like I asked for this opportunity. (I did. Thank you for indulging me, @laughingthelaughiest) General warnings for the description of things involved with terrible car accidents – aka screeching metal and lots of blood. Happy ending though, I promise! Nobody died.
I am six years old. My father plows snow in the winter months, which means that bolted onto the front of his work truck is a very heavy snow plow that – when not in use – rests primly about a foot above the ground like a lady lifting up her skirts as she steps over a puddle.
“Hey kiddo, do you want to come to work with me?” my dad asks one day during a relatively minor* snowstorm.
(* minor my ass)
Because there was nothing more exciting to me at this time in my life than sitting in a warm truck and watching what is essentially a large metal trough push tons of snow from one end of a parking lot to the other, I practically yell, “WHY YES DAD, THAT SOUNDS GREAT!!!” and we get in the truck.
Only instead of arriving at our intended destination, we encounter a car coming from the opposite direction that spins out on a patch of black ice and manages to hurtle broadside at full speed into the plow.
I am pretty much just flung forwards, and terrible things happen to my face when my body continues on its general trajectory towards the windshield. Thanks, momentum!
Luckily (and novel-like), there was a nurse a couple of cars behind us who stopped to see if everyone was okay. She opened my door to find that I was very clearly not okay, and while my father did his best to staunch the blood that was streaming down my face, she tasked herself with keeping me conscious until the paramedics arrived.
Being six and probably concussed, she didn’t talk to me about anything complicated. I did not know who the president was. I sure as heck couldn’t have told you the date. But my favorite subject in school? I know that! Reading! My favorite color? Yellow! My favorite animal? GIRAFFES.
It’s important at this stage to mention that this car accident occurred on a street where people lived, and there had been a group of boys playing in the snow two houses up from where the truck stopped. Boys + crushed cars + blood = apparently just riveting, because a couple of them were staring at me/the vehicles from a couple yards away.
At my presumably slurred but very enthusiastic response of “GIRAFFES!” one of these boys split off from the rest and hoofed it through the snow towards his house. I was too focused on wanting to sleep and the nurse not letting me to notice this, but it for sure happened. As you will see.
Several sirens later, I am loaded into the ambulance wearing a neck brace and what feels like all of the gauze on planet Earth. My dad climbs in next to me, and the paramedic is just about to shut the doors when there’s a very small voice from outside.
We are all as so:
My father: probably still terrified that I’m going to die, literally could not care less what this other tiny child who is not his has to say, wants to get to the hospital, still has to call and tell my mom that I’m injured
The paramedic: good at his job, knows I’m stable, has a moment to spare, leans back out of the ambulance.
Myself: still in shock, staring up at the rows of medical supplies and disgustingly bright lighting, more concerned that my dad will crush my fingers than anything else going on in, say, the bleeding face area. (Severe head injury? Who’s she? DAD I KNOW YOU LOVE ME BUT PLEASE LET GO OF MY HAND THAT HURTS.)
The boy who had hoofed it home and then evidently hoofed it right back: “Would you please give this to the little girl who got hurt?”
Me now in the year 2018: wanting to cry because I still can’t believe this is a real thing that happened to me in real life and it wasn’t a dream it was real
So the paramedic says “Yes, of course. She’ll love it!” or something equally as efficient because I am still technically quite injured and they really do need to get to the hospital at some point. The boy leaves, the door is shut, the paramedic sets something on the stretcher next to me.
[pause for dramatic effect]
We tried to find the kid who gave him to me, but nothing ever came of it. In the back of my fully healed head I’m still waiting for the novel that must be my life to shoehorn that boy back into the plot. Where are you, giraffe man? I have to thank you for the best gift I’ve ever been given.
Yogg-Sarongurt 
