Catlover

おもしろすぎて何度も再生してしまうwwwww

That moment Michael Jackson missed his line recording “We Are The World” but recovered instantly and locked right back into the beat like a pro.

@oufti_isa @DjebelUl82714 On voit la caméra qui a été offerte il y a pas longtemps et puis, le langage de Grigri est super difficile à imiter.

Ce serait bien que Papou publie un calendrier à la date d'aujourd'hui à côté de ta photo. Comme cela on saurait que c'est réellement lui qui publie et non un pirate qui puise dans tes vieilles photos. Désolée mais avec ce pseudo je suis dubitative. Pourquoi Papou ne fait-il plus de vidéo où il parle en direct en te donnant à manger ? Ca ne dérange personne ? Moi oui.

Bon, lé zamis do l'ordi, il no mo reste ko so compte là. 😾 Ko cé lo bordel.😾

@CH_jolvetis @loic_morandeau Comme de tout ce qui va mal, non ? Les profs font ce qu'on leur demande de faire. Un calcul est raté ? C'est pas grave ! Le prof note sévèrement : les parents débarquent ou alertent le Rectorat. On doit TOUT tolérer au nom de la bienveillance. Sinon, les parents arrivent...

@loic_morandeau N'est-ce pas les enseignants les premiers responsables de la chute du niveau ?

En classe de Quatrième ce matin, je note au tableau les dates du poète Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585). Je demande tout de go de me dire à quel âge ce poète est mort. Long silence. Je relance ma question. Rien. Enfin, après plusieurs longues secondes, un bon élève se lance.

This performance always brings tears to my eyes. His voice is pure magic 🤍🕊️

@Giosi_Borselli Fdp voilà le seul mot qui me vient.

Mon colocataire est rentré ivre hier soir, cherchant la bagarre parce que sa petite amie venait de le larguer. J'ai vu la rage dans ses yeux, la façon dont il bombait le torse, essayant de me provoquer pour que je sois le premier à frapper. Je me suis éloigné. Je suis allé dans ma chambre. Je suis resté calme. Je ne suis pas une personne violente — je suis le genre de type qui attrape les araignées pour les relâcher dehors, qui pleure devant des vidéos de chiens, qui ne ferait pas de mal à une mouche. Alors, il a saisi mon chaton de six semaines — cette petite chose minuscule que j'avais sauvée d'une bouche d'égout trois semaines plus tôt, qui tenait encore dans le creux d'une main et dormait sur ma poitrine chaque nuit — et il l'a expédiée d'un coup de pied à travers le salon. Elle a percuté le mur. J'ai entendu le bruit sourd. Le cri. Six semaines. À peine une livre de douceur et de confiance. Il lui a donné ce coup de pied parce que je refusais de riposter. Parce qu'il savait que c'était le seul moyen de me blesser plus profondément que n'importe quel coup de poing. J'ai pété les plombs. Je lui ai flanqué une raclée pendant trente minutes. Pas une bagarre expéditive ; c'était méthodique. Je m'arrêtais, je vérifiais le corps tremblant de la petite dans le coin de la pièce, je m'assurais qu'elle respirait encore, puis je retournais vers lui pour le frapper à nouveau. Encore et encore. Je lui ai cassé le nez. Fendu la lèvre. J'ai continué chaque fois qu'il tentait de se relever ou marmonnait une excuse d'ivrogne. Trente minutes de rage aveugle parce qu'il s'en était pris à la seule créature innocente que j'avais réussi à sauver. À présent, je suis assis là, de la glace sur les phalanges et la nausée au fond de la gorge, car je n'ai jamais fait de mal à qui que ce soit de cette façon auparavant. J'ai honte. J'ai l'estomac noué. Je ne suis pas un bagarreur ; je suis un lâche qui a laissé sa colère le transformer en quelque chose de monstrueux. Mais alors, je la regarde dormir sur mes genoux — toute petite, sous ses bandages — et je sais, avec une certitude absolue, que je recommencerais sans hésiter. Il ne s'est pas excusé. Ce matin, il m'a dit que « ce n'était qu'un chat », que j'avais « surréagi » et qu'il « envisageait de porter plainte ». Il ne ressent absolument aucun remords d'avoir expédié d'un coup de pied un animal sans défense simplement pour avoir le dernier mot dans une dispute. Ai-je tort de savoir que je porterais à nouveau ce fardeau de la honte, et ce, de bon cœur, pour m'assurer qu'il ne la touche plus jamais ? Pour avoir cru qu’il y a des limites qu’on ne franchit pas, même ivre ? Pour avoir pensé que trente minutes de ma propre haine de moi-même constituaient un échange équitable pour qu’elle ne reçoive plus jamais de coups ? Texte tiré de FB compte : «  Couple2 »

Michael Jackson covering “Killing Me Softly With His Song” completely changed my life

@Boisaubert6 C’est clair pourtant

En français ça donne quoi ??? Faut faire des efforts gri 🤔

The hotel hallway. Empty. Then a figure walked past the camera. Face blurred. But the walk was familiar. Tom's walk. The video ended. Another text. "Nice room. The bed looks comfortable. Save me a spot." I grabbed Claire. We left through the stairwell. Didn't use the elevator. Didn't go past the front desk. We drove to the police station. I have a friend there. Detective Mears. Old partner. I told him everything. The texts. The photos. The video. The forgetting. He listened. Didn't interrupt. When I finished, he pulled up Tom's file. "Thomas Greene. Died three years ago. Cause of death: seizure. Body was cremated. Family took the ashes." He looked at me. "The widow's name?" "Claire Greene. My sister." He shook his head. "The widow's name on file is Margaret Greene. Different woman. Different address. No record of a Claire." I looked at Claire. She was sitting in the waiting area. Staring at the wall. "Claire. When did you and Tom get married?" She turned. Her face was blank. "I don't know." "What do you mean you don't know?" "I mean I don't know. I remember a wedding. I remember a dress. I don't remember the date. I don't remember the year. I don't even remember the city." She looked at her hands. "I don't remember anything before last year." Detective Mears pulled me aside. "Your sister isn't in any system. No ID. No driver's license. No social security number. No medical records. No school records. Nothing." "That's impossible. She's been alive for thirty years." "According to what? Your memory?" I stared at him. "I grew up with her. We shared a room. We fought over clothes. She dated my ex-boyfriend. I have photos. I have videos. I have Christmas morning on VHS." He nodded slowly. "I'm not saying you're lying. I'm saying someone erased her. Or she was never there to begin with." "What does that mean?" He looked at Claire. Still staring at the wall. "What if the thing wearing Tom isn't new? What if it's been here a long time? What if it's been wearing different faces? Different bodies? What if Claire was never Claire?" "That's not possible." "Neither is a dead man sending photos from inside your hotel room."

He was right. I walked back to Claire. "Claire. Look at me." She turned. "Do you remember being a kid? Do you remember our house? Our school? Our dog?" She thought for a long time. "I remember you," she said. "I remember your face. I remember your voice. I don't remember anything else." "When did you start remembering me?" She looked at the floor. "The day Tom came back. The day he started wearing his face. You were there. You were always there. But I don't remember you from before." "You only remember me from the last year?" She nodded. "Like someone put me in your head. Like someone wanted you to have a sister. So you wouldn't be alone." My hands were shaking. "Claire. I'm going to ask you something. And I need you to be honest." "Okay." "Am I your sister? Or do you just remember me that way?" She started crying. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." Detective Mears drove us to his house. Safe house. Off the books. No windows in the basement. He put Claire in a guest room. Locked the door from the outside. "She stays here until we figure this out." "What about me?" "You stay too. Both of you. No phones. No internet. No contact with anyone." I gave him my phone. He looked at the screen. Forty-seven messages from Tom's number. He opened the most recent. A photo. Detective Mears's house. Taken from the street. And a message. "She's not your sister. She's mine. I made her. I can take her back. Give her to me. Or I'll come get her myself." Mears looked at me. "When did this thing attach to Claire?" "I don't know. A year ago? When Tom came back?"

He shook his head. "This message says 'I made her.' Not 'I found her.' Made her. Like she didn't exist before." I looked at the basement stairs. Claire was up there. Locked in a room. "What is she?" Mears handed me the phone. "I don't know. But I don't think she's human." I stared at the message. Then I noticed something. The timestamp. The photo of Mears's house was taken ten minutes ago. We've been here for twenty. He was watching us before we arrived. I went upstairs. Unlocked Claire's door. She was sitting on the bed. Same position as the waiting room. Staring at the wall. "Claire. I need you to tell me the truth." She didn't move. "Did Tom make you?" She turned. "Yes." "What are you?"

She looked at her hands. Then at me. "I don't have a name for it. I just know I wasn't here. And then I was. And the first thing I saw was his face. The thing wearing Tom's face. And he told me I was Claire. He told me you were my sister. He told me what to remember. What to say. How to act." She started crying again. "I didn't know I wasn't real. I thought everyone felt like this. Like they were made of fog. Like they could disappear if someone stopped looking at them." "You're real to me." She shook her head. "I'm real because he's watching. When he stops, I'll stop. I'll forget. I'll go back to wherever I came from." "Then we'll make him watch. We'll keep you here." She smiled. Small. Sad. "You can't. He's not watching anymore. He's waiting. There's a difference." She looked at the door. "He's here." She shook her head. "I'm real because he's watching. When he stops, I'll stop. I'll forget. I'll go back to wherever I came from." "Then we'll make him watch. We'll keep you here." She smiled. Small. Sad. "You can't. He's not watching anymore. He's waiting. There's a difference." She looked at the door. "He's here."

The lights went out. I heard Mears shout from downstairs. Then a crash. Then silence. I grabbed Claire's hand. Pulled her into the hallway. The front door was open. Moonlight. Shadows. Something was standing in the doorway. Not Tom. Not a person. A shape. Tall. Thin. Wrong proportions. Arms too long. Head tilted at an angle necks don't bend. Claire squeezed my hand. "Don't look at his face," she whispered. "If you look at his face, he can take your memories. He can make you forget who you are." "What happens then?" "Then you're empty. And he fills you with something else." The shape stepped forward. I closed my eyes. I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer. Then Claire screamed. I opened my eyes. She was on the floor. Holding her head. Shaking. The shape was standing over her. Its hand on her forehead. "Claire!" She looked at me. Her eyes were wrong. Blank. Like someone had wiped them clean. "Claire, it's me. Your sister." She tilted her head. The same angle as the shape. "I don't have a sister," she said. Her voice was empty. No emotion. No recognition. "I don't have anything." The shape turned to me. I closed my eyes again. Footsteps. Coming closer. Then a whisper. Right next to my ear. "Open your eyes." I didn't move.

"Open your eyes, or I'll take her. Not her memories. Her. Every part of her. She'll never have existed. No one will remember her. Not even you." I opened my eyes. The shape was gone. Claire was gone. The house was empty. No furniture. No lights. No doors. Just walls. Floor. Ceiling. I walked outside. No street. No houses. No cars. Just grey. Everywhere. Like the world had been erased. I stood there for a long time. Then I heard a voice. Not the shape's. Not Claire's. Mine. "You're still here," my voice said. "That means he wants you to remember." "Remember what?" Silence. Then the grey started to fade. The street came back. The houses. The cars. I was standing in front of Mears's house. The door was closed. The lights were on. I walked inside. Mears was at his desk. Typing. He looked up. "Hey. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost." "Where's Claire?" He frowned. "Who's Claire?" I stared at him. "My sister." He shook his head. "You don't have a sister. You never did."

I drove to my apartment. Checked my photos. My videos. My Christmas mornings. Claire was gone. From every picture. Every memory. Every frame. I found a photo of me and my mom. I was ten. Mom was thirty. There was a gap between us. Like someone had been cropped out. I called my mom. "Hey, honey. What's up?" "Mom. Did I have a sister?" Silence. Then she started crying. "I don't know," she whispered. "I think I did. But I can't remember. Every time I try, it's like reaching into fog." "Mom. Listen to me. Her name was Claire. She was my sister. She was your daughter." "I want to believe you," she said. "But I don't remember. I don't remember anything." She hung up. I sat on my floor. Staring at the gap in the photo. My phone buzzed. A text. Unknown number. "Claire is safe. She's with me. She's happy. She doesn't remember you. She doesn't remember anything. That's the gift I gave her. Peace. Forgetting." I typed back. "Where is she?" Another text. "Everywhere. Nowhere. Inside you. You remember her. So she exists. As long as you remember, she's real. But you're forgetting already. Aren't you?" I tried to picture Claire's face. It was blurry. Like a photograph left in the sun. I couldn't remember her voice. Her laugh. Her favorite color.

I typed back. "Please. Don't take her." No answer. I called the number. Disconnected. I sat there for an hour. Trying to remember. Her face. Her hands. The way she said my name. It was all fading. By morning, I only remembered two things. Her name was Claire. And she was my sister. Nothing else. I went to Claire's house. The one she lived in with Tom. It was empty. No furniture. No photos. No signs anyone had ever lived there. I checked the basement. Fresh concrete on the floor. Poured recently. Still soft in some spots. I left. Didn't look back. I went to the cemetery. Tom's grave. The real Tom. The headstone said: THOMAS GREENE. BELOVED HUSBAND. DIED 2022. No mention of a wife. No mention of Claire. I asked the groundskeeper if he remembered the funeral. "Which one?" he said. "Thomas Greene." He thought for a minute. "Three years ago. No family showed up. Just a man in a suit. Paid in cash. Left before they lowered the casket." "What did the man look like?" He shrugged. "Average. Forgettable. Like he didn't want to be remembered." I drove home. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. A photo. Claire. Standing in a field. Sunflowers behind her. Smiling. She looked happy. Peaceful. Like she'd never been afraid. Another text. "She's safe. She's real. She's mine now. Don't try to find her. You won't remember why you're looking." I saved the photo.

I looked at it every day for a week. Her face got blurrier. Her smile got fainter. The sunflowers turned to grey. On the seventh day, I couldn't remember her name. I looked at the photo. I knew she was important. I knew I loved her. I didn't know why. I deleted the photo. I felt lighter. I went to work. Made dinner. Watched TV. Slept. I didn't dream. I haven't dreamed since. Last night, I woke up at 3:00 AM. My phone was ringing. No caller ID. I answered. Breathing. Then a voice. Familiar. Warm. "Hi. It's me. I know you don't remember me. That's okay. I just wanted to say I'm okay. I'm happy. I have a garden now. And sunflowers. Lots of sunflowers." "Who is this?" A pause. "You used to call me Claire." I sat up. Heart pounding. "I don't know anyone named Claire." "I know. That's what he does. He takes the memories. He takes the names. He takes everything." "Who's he?"

Silence. Then a whisper. "The one who wears faces. The one who lives in the empty places. The one who makes people forget." "Why are you calling me?" "Because I remember. I don't know why. I just do. I remember you. I remember your face. Your voice. The way you said my name." She started crying. "I'm not supposed to remember. He's going to be angry. He's going to take more than memories this time." "Claire—" "I have to go. I love you. I'm sorry I couldn't stay." The line went dead. I called back. No answer. I searched my phone for the photo. The one of her in the sunflowers. Gone. I searched my memory for her face. Gone. I only have this. This feeling. This ache. Like someone cut something out of me and I can still feel the wound. I'm writing this so I don't forget. But I'm already forgetting. The words on this page are starting to look strange. Like they belong to someone else. I don't know why I'm typing. I don't know who Claire is. I don't know why I'm crying. I think I'll go make coffee. The sunflowers in my backyard are blooming. They're beautiful. I don't remember planting them.

@bitchwitch1969 Tellement d’accord. On nous a promis que cette connerie s’arreterait mais quand ?

Je déteste l'heure d'été. Je n'arrive pas à me lever le matin. Je suis encore plus éclatée que d'habitude et je ne m'endors pas le soir... Je suis partie pour 6 mois de tête dans le cul TOUS. LES. MATINS.😭😭 Quand cette ineptie va-t-elle s'arrêter?

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