Things i've enjoyed in the month of July:
Re-reading Carry On:
I am human goo.
That is all.
See all those folded edges?
Those are all my favourite parts.
See how they double in quantity around halfway through?
That's when Tyrannus Basilton 'I'm disturbed. Ask anyone' Grimm-Pitch makes his grand entrance.
Read the book and you'll understand why all the folded edges.
.............................................
Everything Johnny Goth:
I don't know what it is but goddamnit this just sounds so fucking right!
.............................................
Catching up with my beloved:
There are 10 books in this series.
This is my third.
I'm head over fucking heels in love with the heroine (Kate "don't fuck with me" Daniels) so i'm trying to pace myself so i don't lose her too soon.
...
I managed a month without her.
That's how weak i am.
I halfway blame my need for her on the despicably horrendous book i read prior to Magic Strikes.
I may have held out longer if i hadn't been so damn enraged.
But i needed my girl and her cantankerous lion to lick my wounds.
So here we are, three books in and i'm royally fucked.
How could i not be when she says shit like this:
"I dreamed that Curran and I killed a dinosaur and then had sex in the dirt."
That's my hero, ladies and gentlefolks.
My goddamned hero.
How in the hell am i supposed to not just devour this series?
HOW?!
Also: These novels have confirmed that i love reading Mass Market Paperbacks.
They're the perfect size.
For my freakishly small hands.
.............................................
Noelle Stevenson reuniting the fam:
Look at Goldenloin in his muscle shirt.
I can't even.
.............................................
Re-reading Wintersong in preparation for its successor, Shadowsong:
The goblin love child of The Goblin Market, The Erl-King and Labyrinth.
...
This may not be the best book in the world.
It may not have words to level your very being or characters you'll carry with you 'til the day you die.
But there's just something about it.
Something languid.
Something stifling.
Something dulcet.
Something... other.
And it sucks me in.
"Myself entire."
.............................................
Cirrocumulus and Cirrus Radiatus:
aka. Herringbone clouds or a Mackerel Sky and Feather clouds.
At least that's what i think these are.
If not... lookit, pretty clouds.
.............................................
Taking some time out with Tandy and Carol:
Tv's leaving me somewhat cold lately.
I can't seem to sink my teeth into anything.
Happy! started so well and then my attention started to drift.
Which is impressive considering the amount of unabashed comical violence.
But as much as i worship at the arch of Christopher Meloni's maniacal brow...
...it just wasn't enough to stop ye olde brainpan contemplating whether i should venture to the kitchen and devour all the crackers instead of revelling in the bloodthirsty farce that is this show.
UnREAL was despicable as per usual and i loved every minute of it but it wasn't anything i hadn't seen from before.
Actually, it was a pretty tame season considering the new lows season two managed to plunder.
Constance Zimmer though, she's a teeny tiny foul-mouthed goddess and i adore her:
.............................................
This was... surprising:
I read the first in The Sin-Eater's Trilogy two years ago and was supremely underwhelmed by yet another weak-willed "heroine" and insta-love.
...
Gross.
But i'm a stubborn ass, so i gave the sequel, The Sleeping Prince, a shot.
And i'm bloody glad i did.
It's still YA but really good YA (not that i'm against YA in the slightest i've just been corrupted by the smut in NA... shy glances and chaste fumbles just don't cut it anymore... i demand filth).
Not Sarah J. Maas, Leigh Bardugo, Laura Thalassa, oh dear god i can't handle all "the feels" good but i read it in two days and now i'm regretting not having the last book at my fingertips.
It really isn't anything new but the writing's incredibly pleasing, i've an endless weakness for fairytales reimagined and the heroine this time around has all the moxie i demand in my leading ladies.
(She actually reminded me a little of my beloved Feyre.)
Added bonus, they took the heroine from the first book and gave her some spine too.
More spine than i knew she was capable of.
And that i very much like.
Also there's this:
'He lowers his lips to my brow, kissing my forehead, I can feel them curving against my skin as he smiles and it sends a jolt of warmth through my body.
He leans back, looking at me with hungry eyes, and mine begin to close in anticipation of his kiss.
Instead he thrusts his hand into my chest, tearing the dress, shattering my ribcage until my heart is in his fist, still beating. I begin to lose consciousness as he brings it to his smiling mouth, licking it experimentally.
"Needs more salt." He smiles.'
My creepy little heart is so into that.
.............................................
Adding to the sweatshirt collection with a yellow version of this bookish number:
I'm almost 100% sure this is the same colour as my Brownies uniform.
I won't be quitting this sweatshirt though.
(yes, i quit the Brownies because... i'm a little heathen who doesn't play well with others)
I pledge my allegiance to text-based sportswear.
And books, of course.
.............................................
Glen Duncan's The Last Werewolf:
"A vampire has written: 'The great asymmetry between immortals and werewolves (apart from the obvious aesthetic asymmetry) is that whereas the vampire is elevated by his transformation the werewolf is diminished by his. To be a vampire is to be increased in subtlety of mind and refinement of taste; the self opens the door of its dismal bedsit to discover the house of many mansions. Personality expands, indefinitely. The vampire gets immortality, immense physical strength, hypnotic ability, the power of flight, psychic grandeur and emotional depth. The werewolf gets dyslexia and a permanent erection. It's hardly worth making the comparison ...' For all which you can read: Werewolves get to have sex and we don't."
This is why i read.
This is why i essentially get a contact high just from looking at an unread book.
This is why i do nothing else on the internet but trawl Goodreads for new stories to devour.
This is why words are the most powerful fucking magic on this godforsaken planet.
This. This. This:
"Sky and water shifted or swivelled their occult constituent parts and like the solution to a visual riddle the stars yielded a new constellation describing the figure of a wolf, a diagram showing that there was no reason for us, only the certainty of us, and understanding this was like taking the hand that would lead us to peace. The night in the room agreed, through the drifting water and the smell of frost.
Which isn't to say we weren't wet with blood or that Tallula didn't arch her back or that my hands didn't cup her breasts or that her legs didn't open with sly animal capitulation. I'd thought I loved her before, and so I had, the woman. But this was the monster and the monster was magnificent. I got an unmanning glimpse of the depth of my capacity for worship, drew back from it as from the edge of a cold-aired chasm. She saw that, too, and sent me, It's the same for me, don't you see?
Her question turned out to be the tipping point. A second of absolute balance―then down from the fulcrum moment I went into her as her eyes rolled back and her tongue curled in martial or erotic triumph (detonating however absurdly Dante, And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness) ‑ while the sudden plunge tore us out of our bodies and for an unmeasurable moment returned us to the thing that wasn't God but the aspect of him that was ours, and in which infinitely generous archetype there was neither her nor me but only the rapture that calls you home to unity with the sweetest song and painlessly burns away the straps and buckles of the suffering self.
Bliss."
The Last Werewolf is a bestial piece of literature.
Virile and caustic with words that stroke, nuzzle, bite and flay.
It's so inherently human in all its glorious beastliness.
And it broke my heart.
Broke it. Tore it from my chest. And devoured it whole.
I reiterate: This is why i read.
.............................................
There's an overgrown sausage on my floor:
Who keeps intermittently mewing.
...
Like a dog.
...
.............................................
My inbox being devilish:
Plus, look at Fray, isn't she magnificent?
.............................................
Discovering this on Spotify:
This hokey fairytale-fest has a very special place in my fantasy-loving heart.
It's truly terrible but for some inexplicable reason that just makes me love it more?
(not sorry)
.............................................
Watching my list of book series to finish grow from this:
To this:
Sometimes i just look at it and think...
"I like you. You're cool. You're gonna have new friends soon."
...
I've already added more.
(i. can't. stop.)
.............................................
An interview with the 1975's Matt Healy:
I know there are a multitude of more "important", more "valid", more... just "more" articles i could be reading but... that's just not me.
I've always learned more (there's that word again) not from being told something but by being invited to know something.
A conversational voice unfailingly penetrates my brain with greater efficiency than a lecturing one. Fuck knows how i did so well at school - which sounds horribly boastful, it's not intended to be, i didn't rock the educational system with my intellect*, i passed my exams and i passed them well** - because i was bored rigid.
I would have given anything to talk about music, art (in all its forms), literature, nature, religion, tv, film etc. ad infinitum whilst being educated rather than sitting in a classroom, forcing my brain to make space for information i would unfailingly forget once exams were over.
I would have given anything for someone to just damn well talk to me.
So, to come across an interview with the lead singer of a favourite band who isn't namedropping or shoving their new album down my throat but voicing opinions/observations on issues extremely relevant to my generation (observations most are terrified to make because as a generation we skewer anyone who says anything even minutely connotational) is always something i'll make time for.
And Matt Healy is an interesting person.
With an interesting voice.
The lyrics in his music alone are enough to demand i pay fucking attention.
So i did.
...
I ramble when i'm pissy.
In short?
This article is interesting.
I'd like you to read it.
But it's ok if you don't.
.............................................
More of the Charliebear:
As soon as Em pointed out where this little monster was sleeping all i could think of was this:
.............................................
Everything Johnny Goth:
I don't know what it is but goddamnit this just sounds so fucking right!
.............................................
Catching up with my beloved:
There are 10 books in this series.
This is my third.
I'm head over fucking heels in love with the heroine (Kate "don't fuck with me" Daniels) so i'm trying to pace myself so i don't lose her too soon.
...
I managed a month without her.
That's how weak i am.
I halfway blame my need for her on the despicably horrendous book i read prior to Magic Strikes.
I may have held out longer if i hadn't been so damn enraged.
But i needed my girl and her cantankerous lion to lick my wounds.
So here we are, three books in and i'm royally fucked.
How could i not be when she says shit like this:
"I dreamed that Curran and I killed a dinosaur and then had sex in the dirt."
That's my hero, ladies and gentlefolks.
My goddamned hero.
Oh, and they totally went there with my OTP.
And it was fucking exhilarating.
...How in the hell am i supposed to not just devour this series?
HOW?!
Also: These novels have confirmed that i love reading Mass Market Paperbacks.
They're the perfect size.
For my freakishly small hands.
.............................................
Noelle Stevenson reuniting the fam:
Look at Goldenloin in his muscle shirt.
I can't even.
.............................................
Re-reading Wintersong in preparation for its successor, Shadowsong:
The goblin love child of The Goblin Market, The Erl-King and Labyrinth.
...
This may not be the best book in the world.
It may not have words to level your very being or characters you'll carry with you 'til the day you die.
But there's just something about it.
Something languid.
Something stifling.
Something dulcet.
Something... other.
And it sucks me in.
"Myself entire."
.............................................
Cirrocumulus and Cirrus Radiatus:
aka. Herringbone clouds or a Mackerel Sky and Feather clouds.
At least that's what i think these are.
If not... lookit, pretty clouds.
.............................................
Taking some time out with Tandy and Carol:
I can't seem to sink my teeth into anything.
Happy! started so well and then my attention started to drift.
Which is impressive considering the amount of unabashed comical violence.
But as much as i worship at the arch of Christopher Meloni's maniacal brow...
UnREAL was despicable as per usual and i loved every minute of it but it wasn't anything i hadn't seen from before.
Actually, it was a pretty tame season considering the new lows season two managed to plunder.
Constance Zimmer though, she's a teeny tiny foul-mouthed goddess and i adore her:
The depravity of Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon's masterpiece is just not something you can translate to screen easily.
Especially when i'm being distracted by Dominic Cooper's monstrous southern accent.
Stop it.
Just stop.
Joseph Gilgun keeps drawing me back though.
Damn him:
(killer season 2 finale, however)
So what does all this televisual malaise result in?
Reacquainting myself with the last people on earth and watching them do reliably unsavoury things:
I love these idiots.
And i've had this stuck in my head for the past two weeks:
This was... surprising:
I read the first in The Sin-Eater's Trilogy two years ago and was supremely underwhelmed by yet another weak-willed "heroine" and insta-love.
...
Gross.
But i'm a stubborn ass, so i gave the sequel, The Sleeping Prince, a shot.
And i'm bloody glad i did.
It's still YA but really good YA (not that i'm against YA in the slightest i've just been corrupted by the smut in NA... shy glances and chaste fumbles just don't cut it anymore... i demand filth).
Not Sarah J. Maas, Leigh Bardugo, Laura Thalassa, oh dear god i can't handle all "the feels" good but i read it in two days and now i'm regretting not having the last book at my fingertips.
It really isn't anything new but the writing's incredibly pleasing, i've an endless weakness for fairytales reimagined and the heroine this time around has all the moxie i demand in my leading ladies.
(She actually reminded me a little of my beloved Feyre.)
Added bonus, they took the heroine from the first book and gave her some spine too.
More spine than i knew she was capable of.
And that i very much like.
Also there's this:
'He lowers his lips to my brow, kissing my forehead, I can feel them curving against my skin as he smiles and it sends a jolt of warmth through my body.
He leans back, looking at me with hungry eyes, and mine begin to close in anticipation of his kiss.
Instead he thrusts his hand into my chest, tearing the dress, shattering my ribcage until my heart is in his fist, still beating. I begin to lose consciousness as he brings it to his smiling mouth, licking it experimentally.
"Needs more salt." He smiles.'
My creepy little heart is so into that.
.............................................
Adding to the sweatshirt collection with a yellow version of this bookish number:
I'm almost 100% sure this is the same colour as my Brownies uniform.
I won't be quitting this sweatshirt though.
(yes, i quit the Brownies because... i'm a little heathen who doesn't play well with others)
I pledge my allegiance to text-based sportswear.
And books, of course.
.............................................
Glen Duncan's The Last Werewolf:
"A vampire has written: 'The great asymmetry between immortals and werewolves (apart from the obvious aesthetic asymmetry) is that whereas the vampire is elevated by his transformation the werewolf is diminished by his. To be a vampire is to be increased in subtlety of mind and refinement of taste; the self opens the door of its dismal bedsit to discover the house of many mansions. Personality expands, indefinitely. The vampire gets immortality, immense physical strength, hypnotic ability, the power of flight, psychic grandeur and emotional depth. The werewolf gets dyslexia and a permanent erection. It's hardly worth making the comparison ...' For all which you can read: Werewolves get to have sex and we don't."
This is why i read.
This is why i essentially get a contact high just from looking at an unread book.
This is why i do nothing else on the internet but trawl Goodreads for new stories to devour.
This is why words are the most powerful fucking magic on this godforsaken planet.
This. This. This:
"Sky and water shifted or swivelled their occult constituent parts and like the solution to a visual riddle the stars yielded a new constellation describing the figure of a wolf, a diagram showing that there was no reason for us, only the certainty of us, and understanding this was like taking the hand that would lead us to peace. The night in the room agreed, through the drifting water and the smell of frost.
Which isn't to say we weren't wet with blood or that Tallula didn't arch her back or that my hands didn't cup her breasts or that her legs didn't open with sly animal capitulation. I'd thought I loved her before, and so I had, the woman. But this was the monster and the monster was magnificent. I got an unmanning glimpse of the depth of my capacity for worship, drew back from it as from the edge of a cold-aired chasm. She saw that, too, and sent me, It's the same for me, don't you see?
Her question turned out to be the tipping point. A second of absolute balance―then down from the fulcrum moment I went into her as her eyes rolled back and her tongue curled in martial or erotic triumph (detonating however absurdly Dante, And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness) ‑ while the sudden plunge tore us out of our bodies and for an unmeasurable moment returned us to the thing that wasn't God but the aspect of him that was ours, and in which infinitely generous archetype there was neither her nor me but only the rapture that calls you home to unity with the sweetest song and painlessly burns away the straps and buckles of the suffering self.
Bliss."
The Last Werewolf is a bestial piece of literature.
Virile and caustic with words that stroke, nuzzle, bite and flay.
It's so inherently human in all its glorious beastliness.
And it broke my heart.
Broke it. Tore it from my chest. And devoured it whole.
I reiterate: This is why i read.
.............................................
There's an overgrown sausage on my floor:
Who keeps intermittently mewing.
...
Like a dog.
...
.............................................
My inbox being devilish:
Plus, look at Fray, isn't she magnificent?
.............................................
Discovering this on Spotify:
This hokey fairytale-fest has a very special place in my fantasy-loving heart.
It's truly terrible but for some inexplicable reason that just makes me love it more?
I forced my parents to watch the entire thing with me when it appeared on that one blessed Sky channel on terrestrial tv way back in the early 2000s.
...
I think my Dad died a little inside.
Sorry, Dad.(not sorry)
I think i just found what i'll be watching once i finish The Last Man on Earth.
.............................................
Watching my list of book series to finish grow from this:
To this:
Sometimes i just look at it and think...
"I like you. You're cool. You're gonna have new friends soon."
...
I've already added more.
(i. can't. stop.)
.............................................
An interview with the 1975's Matt Healy:
I know there are a multitude of more "important", more "valid", more... just "more" articles i could be reading but... that's just not me.
I've always learned more (there's that word again) not from being told something but by being invited to know something.
A conversational voice unfailingly penetrates my brain with greater efficiency than a lecturing one. Fuck knows how i did so well at school - which sounds horribly boastful, it's not intended to be, i didn't rock the educational system with my intellect*, i passed my exams and i passed them well** - because i was bored rigid.
I would have given anything to talk about music, art (in all its forms), literature, nature, religion, tv, film etc. ad infinitum whilst being educated rather than sitting in a classroom, forcing my brain to make space for information i would unfailingly forget once exams were over.
I would have given anything for someone to just damn well talk to me.
So, to come across an interview with the lead singer of a favourite band who isn't namedropping or shoving their new album down my throat but voicing opinions/observations on issues extremely relevant to my generation (observations most are terrified to make because as a generation we skewer anyone who says anything even minutely connotational) is always something i'll make time for.
And Matt Healy is an interesting person.
With an interesting voice.
The lyrics in his music alone are enough to demand i pay fucking attention.
So i did.
...
I ramble when i'm pissy.
In short?
This article is interesting.
I'd like you to read it.
But it's ok if you don't.
.............................................
More of the Charliebear:
He's my very own miniature Gmork and i love his scowly little face.
.............................................
Taryn Knight's first illustration for her yearly Potter Week Prompts:
As a fellow Hufflepuffer, i feel this intensely.
Hopped over to Pottermore to find out my wand and which Ilvermorny House i'd be sorted into:
...
And i'm not a wizard yet, why?
As a fellow Hufflepuffer, i feel this intensely.
Hopped over to Pottermore to find out my wand and which Ilvermorny House i'd be sorted into:
...
And i'm not a wizard yet, why?
.............................................
Tom Holt's Ye Gods!:
"Damn you, Jason Derry," said the diminutive giant. "Why must you always be asking questions?"
Calmly, Jason lifted Prometheus out of his pocket and sat him down on the palm of his hand. "Because," he replied. "Now, either you tell me what's going on, properly this time, or else you can be put between two slices of bread and eaten. The choice is yours."
"Where are you going to get two slices of bread from, then?"
"I can do without bread," Jason replied, "at a pinch."
"It would be cannibalism."
"Very probably."
I started this many, many, many moons ago and for some reason only got halfway through.
How do i know this?
The bookmark i was using was still secreted inside.
...
A common occurrence before i became an obstinate finisher.
And why must i finish everything i read?
Three words:
On the Road
I very almost gave up on Kerouak's most beloved story because to be frank, it was pissing me off.
There's only so much Beat i can take before i demand a sliver of lucid storytelling.
There was none to be had after 200 odd pages of drug-addled moping.
But i figured, i was in too deep now, may as well mope a little more.
And then Mexico happened and everything changed.
On the Road now stands as an all-time favourite book and if i hadn't been such a bloody-minded shithead, i might have missed it.
This is why i finish everything i read.
(okay, there are few exceptions but that only happens when my eyes start to bleed)
Not that Ye Gods! is a book i never intended to finish.
Quite the contrary.
I just couldn't seem to get around to doing it.
But re-reading Expecting Someone Taller for the billionth time last month forced my procrastinating hand and so, here we are.
Another Tom Holt classic down and a very literary satisfied girl.
If you're looking for something fantastical but with a believable dose of reality, a wicked sense of humour and so charmingly British it hurts and then apologises to itself for said injury... then Tom Holt is just about the finest choice you could make.
I think it might be time to read Paint Your Dragon.
"Damn you, Jason Derry," said the diminutive giant. "Why must you always be asking questions?"
Calmly, Jason lifted Prometheus out of his pocket and sat him down on the palm of his hand. "Because," he replied. "Now, either you tell me what's going on, properly this time, or else you can be put between two slices of bread and eaten. The choice is yours."
"Where are you going to get two slices of bread from, then?"
"I can do without bread," Jason replied, "at a pinch."
"It would be cannibalism."
"Very probably."
I started this many, many, many moons ago and for some reason only got halfway through.
How do i know this?
The bookmark i was using was still secreted inside.
...
A common occurrence before i became an obstinate finisher.
And why must i finish everything i read?
Three words:
On the Road
I very almost gave up on Kerouak's most beloved story because to be frank, it was pissing me off.
There's only so much Beat i can take before i demand a sliver of lucid storytelling.
There was none to be had after 200 odd pages of drug-addled moping.
But i figured, i was in too deep now, may as well mope a little more.
And then Mexico happened and everything changed.
On the Road now stands as an all-time favourite book and if i hadn't been such a bloody-minded shithead, i might have missed it.
This is why i finish everything i read.
(okay, there are few exceptions but that only happens when my eyes start to bleed)
Not that Ye Gods! is a book i never intended to finish.
Quite the contrary.
I just couldn't seem to get around to doing it.
But re-reading Expecting Someone Taller for the billionth time last month forced my procrastinating hand and so, here we are.
Another Tom Holt classic down and a very literary satisfied girl.
If you're looking for something fantastical but with a believable dose of reality, a wicked sense of humour and so charmingly British it hurts and then apologises to itself for said injury... then Tom Holt is just about the finest choice you could make.
I think it might be time to read Paint Your Dragon.
.............................................
* I certainly did fucking not.
** I could have worked harder, done better but... fuck you, school.You sucked.
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