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*´❄`*•.¸.•*´❄`*•.¸.•*´❄`*•.¸.•*´❄`*•.¸.•*´❄`*•.¸.•*´❄`*•.
(☆*✦✦ℳerry ℭhristmas & A ℋappy 2014✦✦ *☆ )
*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*´*•.✩.•*

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Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how
long precisely—having little or no money in my purse,
and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I
would sail about a little and see the watery part of the
world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and
regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself
growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp,
drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself
involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially
whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it
requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from
deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically
knocking people’s hats off—then,
I account it high time to
get to sea as soon as
I can.

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║\
║▒\
║▒▒\
║░▒║U JUST GOT THE
║░▒║
║░▒║DAGGER
║░▒║OF
║░▒║SATAN
║░▒║
║░▒║POST IT ON 2 PROFILES OR DIE
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