...Have signed a deal with Stolen Pictures to develop a Rivers of London TV serieshttps://t.co/84g0ywrm0Z— Ben Aaronovitch (@Ben_Aaronovitch) April 29, 2019
(I'd forgotten about ALA.NI!)
(This fucking song)
Russian Doll is really giving up the goods musically.
Oh, and the show's pretty fucking spectacular as well.
Natasha Lyonne is a queen.
Go worship her.
Go, go, go.
Oh...
Is this...
Will this...
Could this... actually be... good?
I think it's time for a reread of this fucking incredible book with one of the best first lines in the history of first lines.
"My name is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance. I have often thought that with any luck at all I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had. I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise. I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cup mushroom. Everyone else in my family is dead."
If they fuck this up, I'm going to be so mad.
Merricat mad.
It's been three years.
And so worth the wait.
Watch the video.
It's beautiful and wretched and so very confronting:
I read by torchlight.
...
Like a child.
...
Because it's the best goddamn way.
...
Last night it was time for new batteries.
...
Every fucking time.
well i think like a woman
i know i sound like a man
but i understand if you dont understand
but its more than a thought
it’s just who i really am
who i always will be
and who ive always been
so i think about the days
when i looked in the mirror
and i saw it staring back at me
it all became so clear
so i wrote all this music
to get my feelings out
but i never got to sing
what i really wanted to sing about
my favorite shade is pink
and its the color of my room
and i colored my whole life
with a different point of view
so i wrote all this music
to get my feelings out
but ive never got to sing
what i really wanted to sing about
boys will be boys
girls will be girls
but dont even think
you dont belong in this world
if youre a girl thats a boy
or youre a boy thats a girl
dont even think
you dont belong in this world
you belong in this world
i never understood
why my relationships didnt work
why i never was happy
or why i up and left just like a jerk
some say im pure evil some say im not ok
but i was just a walking oxymoron
trying to find her way
so im sorry to my lovers
to my friends that ive confused
it had all to do with me
and had nothing to do with you
so now i have all this music
songs that make me proud
but i was too scared to sing
what i really wanted to sing about
boys will be boys
girls will be girls
dont even think
you dont belong in this world
if youre a girl thats a boy
or youre a boy thats a girl
dont even think
you don’t belong in this world
you belong in this world
This is so beautiful and honest and true.
It's like she knew...
M'lady.
Be as good as you seem.
Go on.
I dare you.
"Dear Ones,
Do you have a person in your life who is your forever Muse? An intersection with a person that defines your life? I'm calling that person(s) for me "Dorian".
I had written this song and had the verses for over a year, but the chorus would never seem to come. Then in 2017 my dear friend and highly revered songwriter, Dave Deporis, died chasing a thief who stole his laptop, which had new recordings of his songs on it. When Dave died I wept and sang this song for 7 hours until I finally caught this chorus. Dave sang about the Light all the time and he became it. I hope you will explore his music too."
- Shara Nova aka. My Brightest Diamond
Fuck.
I forgot how much I love this album.
Fiona Apple.
Karen O.
Chan Marshall.
Melissa Auf der Maur.
Beth Torbert.
And someone I can't pinpoint but I know she's in there.
What the fuckery?
My sister posted this in her own Monthlies for March and I can't stop listening to it.
Not just because it's really fucking good.
But because she reminds me so much of Joan Armatrading.
So, so much.
Support Ashley Stevenson aka. Slim Freedom, here.
Holy shit.
Just...
Holy shit!
Remastered or not, this remains a work of fucking genius.
animation
art
charlie
fan art
figurines
gifs
illustration
life
literature
monthlies
movies
music
photography
quotes
stop motion
toys
tv
video
webcomics
march
April 01, 2019
Things I enjoyed in the month of March:
This squishy nonsense by Abigail Larson:
I need this.
I need it so bad.
(It's mine. I caved. It's sitting in my room. I'm so weak. But it's miiiiiiiiiiiiiine!)
.............................................
A Discovery of Witches:
Oh, book.
We went through some shit together, didn't we?
First there was some boredom.
(If you're going to write a glacial plot, have the decency to make it interesting?)
Then came a significant amount of rage.
(If you want to be Academic Fiction, then damn well be Academic Fiction. Don't half-ass it, ffs!)
Very quickly I progressed to a state of "Why am I reading this? I don't like anybody in this. I don't even hate-like anyone in this! WHY ARE WE CONTINUING, BRAIN, WHY?!".
(Normal people give up at this stage. I can't. It must be finished. Just in case...)
Add in a little more rage, induced by the politest-fucking-vampire-to-ever-be-sired being overly respectful and venturing into alpha-hole territory.
(Don't handle women like you know better, please, it makes me ragey. I don't care if you're 1500 years old, knowledge the fuck up and realise you're in the 21st century, Matthew Clairmont *side-eyeing until the end of time which I can do because he's fucking immortal*)
Then the romance kicked in. And I love me some romance with my supernaturals (bring on all the OTPs) but christ on an ensorcelled bike, foreplay has never been this polite and infuriating and... endearing?
Yeah, you guessed it, this is when things changed and my monkey brain swooned into a puddle of hormone-addled mush.
...
I'm sorry?
At least brain-brain knows better and wouldn't let a man "handle" me like Matthew does Diana but monkey brain's an oestrogenised idiot who practically panted like a dog because he was SO FUCKING SOFT WITH HER!
Again, I'm sorry?
And it just got worse from there because the story got better.
The writing got better.
The characterisation got better
EVERYTHING GOT BETTER!
I even missed the attempts at academic fiction. The very thing that made me furious to begin with.
What the fuck, book?
How'd you do this, Harkness?
Are you really a witch and I'm under your damn thrall?
Because if so? Not cool, bro.
Not cool.
...
Says, brain-brain.
Monkey brain's in a state of Keanu:
Excuse me while I devour the tv adaptation and revel in the Divine casting of Matthew Goode as Matthew Clairmont:
"Staring down at this vampire, I realized with a sinking feeling that my knowledge on the subject was, alas, largely theoretical [...] This one was tall – well over six feet even accounting for the problems of perspective associated with looking down on him from the gallery. And he definitely was not slight. Broad shoulders narrowed into slender hips, which flowed into lean, muscular legs. His hands were strikingly long and agile, a mark of physiological delicacy that made your eyes drift back to them to figure out how they could belong to such a large man.
As my eyes swept over him, his own were fixed on me. From across the room, they seemed black as night, staring up under thick, equally black eyebrows, one of them lifted in a curve that suggested a question mark. His face was indeed striking – all distinct planes and surfaces, with high-angled cheekbones meeting brows that shielded and shadowed his eyes. Above his chin was one of the few places where there was room for softness — his wide mouth, which, like his long hands, didn't seem to make sense.
But the most unnerving thing about him was not his physical perfection. It was his feral combination of strength, agility, and keen intelligence that was palpable across the room. In his black trousers and soft gray sweater, with a shock of black hair swept back from his forehead and cropped close to the nape of his neck, he looked like a panther that could strike at any moment but was in no rush to do so."
.............................................
Oleg Oprisco:
The colour sensitivity in this is so soft.
So, so soft.
.............................................
8fit's 10 Minute Stretching Routine for Back Pain:
My back (specifically between my shoulder blades and radiating downwards) has been killing me for weeks.
I don't know what I've done but my spine is angry.
So, so angry.
Lying in bed is becoming a special kind of torture and I love lying in bed.
Sensitive sloth's need their downtime, y'know?
But lying on my side (either one) - my preferred position - feels like a sadistic little hobgoblin is plucking a taut string between my shoulder blades and lower back.
And doing it fucking gleefully.
We're talking a full fucking concerto.
...
Not cool.
Especially when you're trying to sleep and cannot, unquestionably cannot, sleep on your back.
As much as I crush hard on Wednesday Addams, sleeping like a corpse is a state of repose reserved solely for hardcore goth bitches who glory in their own corporeal pain.
This sloth bitch needs her limbs sort of languidly foetal and creating as much heat as humanly possible, thank you kindly.
(Quite possibly why my back is fucked?)
So, in order to resume my horizontal sloth-like ways, and to stop the incessant need to arch my spine into my stomach (which never helps but I never fucking learn!), some intervention was needed.
Intervention in the form of YouTube.
Blessed YouTube.
I've been doing 8fit's routine every day for weeks, and...
My back is still wrecked.
This didn't help at all.
If anything I'm in more pain and it's now my entire back, and my shoulders, and my neck, and the back of my skull.
Kill me?
Please?
I don't think it's 8fit's fault, though.
Because these are some kickass stretches and I like doing them.
Even if I am still a walking groan in spite of them.
My back's just fucked and this routine isn't cutting it for my specific brand of "rip my spine out; just rip it out and show me so I can scold the motherfucker for doing this to me" pain.
...
But if you've got minor back pain or just want to stretch your body out without needing a goddamn degree to understand what the fuck most instructors are talking about, then 8fit's your girl/guy/enviably fit amorphous blob.
...
I'm going to end up doing fucking yoga.
Goddamnit, spine.
Why are you like this?
...
I am now doing yoga:
Very basic yoga.
But this?
This is nice.
It hurts in the almost masochistic "fuck me sideways it hurts so good" way that proper stretching is meant to.
It's only been a few days though, so who knows if this will help in the longterm but to whichever body-based deity is listening:
.............................................
Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard just annihilating me yet again:
"It's a crunchy after dinner snack and it's shaped like a big worm."
"They look like fingers!"
"Eucalyptus!"
This was so stressful and I loved it and I think I broke a rib.
.............................................
Magic Tests:
First of all, I loved this.
Any time and all time spent hanging out with Kate Daniels' surly, magically gifted ward, Julie is time well fucking spent.
I could read about her growling inside in her own head at the stupidity of most/all of the human and supernatural race for mostly ever.
She's like a hissing Sphinx and I adore her.
Almost as much as Kate.
And it truly is a testament to Ilona Andrews' abilities as a writer because Julie could so easily be accused of being written as a miniature Kate.
Which she is.
But she's still Julie.
Every grumpy, magic-addled, teenage inch of her.
But you can see her slowly taking on Kate's shakily controlled temper, her foul mouth, the way she approaches a mystery, her signature fighting moves (don't fuck with these women, you will end up with various broken things, and that's if they're having a good day...), her unshakable loyalty and her propensity to flirt with innapropriate alpha-bros with squishy insides.
It's so fucking clever.
You hardly even notice it happening.
And it's not forced or unbelievable.
It's just exactly what happens to a child as they grow.
...
I love it.
I love it so much.
Especially when she mouths off.
Mouthy women are my lifeblood.
Literature, please keep feeding them to me, I'm fucking insatiable.
.............................................
The art of Matthew Sharack aka. Sharackula:
Try to tell me otherwise, I dare you.
.............................................
Finally, the fam are together:
It only took 6 months and several cancelled orders later.
(Amazon, you suck sometimes)
But look at themmmm!
And yes, I needed both versions of The Asset.
(In my head I call him Phibi, short for amphibian man)
(Even if the card doesn't have anything on it - wtf, Pop! Vinyl?)
It was completely necessary to my existence.
.............................................
The fact that when there's a faulty link on Goodreads, they do this:
.............................................
Laurence McNaughton's, It Happened One Doomsday:
The only way I can describe this book is to liken it to watching one of those shows that's all drama, fluff and stuffed to the gills with unbelievable plot points.
Like The Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Lost Girl and Wynonna Earp.
And it sounds as if I'm saying this like it's a bad thing.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Because I love supernatural fluff.
It's my happy place.
You can't even imagine how many times I've watched Charmed, and I don't even like Charmed.
But it's stupid and full of crappy digital effects and horrible acting and I lap it up like a thirsty vampire in a human drought.
That's how bad I've got it for this stuff.
And It Happened One Doomsday is unabashed fuel to my insatiable need.
✓ It's got magic.
(Crystal magic to be exact, which is why I spent the whole time reading it with the Steven Universe theme tune playing on repeat in my head)
✓ It's got a reluctant chosen one.
✓ It's got romance.
✓ Action.
✓ Violence.
✓ A quirky and sometimes inappropriate bestie.
✓ Car chases.
(Kind of hard to avoid when your [spoiler] Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's [spoiler] horsey steeds are replaced with sentient, demon sports/muscle cars.)
I need this.
I need it so bad.
(It's mine. I caved. It's sitting in my room. I'm so weak. But it's miiiiiiiiiiiiiine!)
.............................................
A Discovery of Witches:
Oh, book.
We went through some shit together, didn't we?
First there was some boredom.
(If you're going to write a glacial plot, have the decency to make it interesting?)
Then came a significant amount of rage.
(If you want to be Academic Fiction, then damn well be Academic Fiction. Don't half-ass it, ffs!)
Very quickly I progressed to a state of "Why am I reading this? I don't like anybody in this. I don't even hate-like anyone in this! WHY ARE WE CONTINUING, BRAIN, WHY?!".
(Normal people give up at this stage. I can't. It must be finished. Just in case...)
Add in a little more rage, induced by the politest-fucking-vampire-to-ever-be-sired being overly respectful and venturing into alpha-hole territory.
(Don't handle women like you know better, please, it makes me ragey. I don't care if you're 1500 years old, knowledge the fuck up and realise you're in the 21st century, Matthew Clairmont *side-eyeing until the end of time which I can do because he's fucking immortal*)
Then the romance kicked in. And I love me some romance with my supernaturals (bring on all the OTPs) but christ on an ensorcelled bike, foreplay has never been this polite and infuriating and... endearing?
Yeah, you guessed it, this is when things changed and my monkey brain swooned into a puddle of hormone-addled mush.
...
I'm sorry?
At least brain-brain knows better and wouldn't let a man "handle" me like Matthew does Diana but monkey brain's an oestrogenised idiot who practically panted like a dog because he was SO FUCKING SOFT WITH HER!
And it just got worse from there because the story got better.
The writing got better.
The characterisation got better
EVERYTHING GOT BETTER!
I even missed the attempts at academic fiction. The very thing that made me furious to begin with.
What the fuck, book?
How'd you do this, Harkness?
Are you really a witch and I'm under your damn thrall?
Because if so? Not cool, bro.
Not cool.
...
Says, brain-brain.
Monkey brain's in a state of Keanu:
"Staring down at this vampire, I realized with a sinking feeling that my knowledge on the subject was, alas, largely theoretical [...] This one was tall – well over six feet even accounting for the problems of perspective associated with looking down on him from the gallery. And he definitely was not slight. Broad shoulders narrowed into slender hips, which flowed into lean, muscular legs. His hands were strikingly long and agile, a mark of physiological delicacy that made your eyes drift back to them to figure out how they could belong to such a large man.
As my eyes swept over him, his own were fixed on me. From across the room, they seemed black as night, staring up under thick, equally black eyebrows, one of them lifted in a curve that suggested a question mark. His face was indeed striking – all distinct planes and surfaces, with high-angled cheekbones meeting brows that shielded and shadowed his eyes. Above his chin was one of the few places where there was room for softness — his wide mouth, which, like his long hands, didn't seem to make sense.
But the most unnerving thing about him was not his physical perfection. It was his feral combination of strength, agility, and keen intelligence that was palpable across the room. In his black trousers and soft gray sweater, with a shock of black hair swept back from his forehead and cropped close to the nape of his neck, he looked like a panther that could strike at any moment but was in no rush to do so."
Yeah, sorry, I've always thought it but...
Brain-brain: I'm not even sorry.
Monkey brain: Mmmmm maple tree...
Weird side-note: I was watching Labyrinth for the billionth time, curled up in a tight ball of "holy motherfucking owwwww" as my ovaries, I dunno, remodelled my uterus for some infernal fucking reason?
And it occurred to me that I would totally be up for casting Matthew Goode as Jareth.
I can see it oh so clearly and it's... unholy.
Unholy in the best way.
And by "best", I mean dirty as fuck and yes, this is monkey brain talking again, the degenerate wench.
...
I still think it would work though.
He's regal.
He's sinisterly charming.
That fucking voice.
Blonde is not his colour but who says the Goblin King can't be a brunette?
Speaking of goblins, do I believe he could reign over a gaggle of mischievous mythical minions? Uhhhh, does Ludo shit in the woods?
Don't answer that.
Ludo's too innocent for such things.
...
I shouldn't be allowed to think out loud.
Oleg Oprisco:
The colour sensitivity in this is so soft.
So, so soft.
.............................................
8fit's 10 Minute Stretching Routine for Back Pain:
My back (specifically between my shoulder blades and radiating downwards) has been killing me for weeks.
I don't know what I've done but my spine is angry.
So, so angry.
Lying in bed is becoming a special kind of torture and I love lying in bed.
Sensitive sloth's need their downtime, y'know?
But lying on my side (either one) - my preferred position - feels like a sadistic little hobgoblin is plucking a taut string between my shoulder blades and lower back.
And doing it fucking gleefully.
We're talking a full fucking concerto.
...
Not cool.
Especially when you're trying to sleep and cannot, unquestionably cannot, sleep on your back.
As much as I crush hard on Wednesday Addams, sleeping like a corpse is a state of repose reserved solely for hardcore goth bitches who glory in their own corporeal pain.
So, in order to resume my horizontal sloth-like ways, and to stop the incessant need to arch my spine into my stomach (which never helps but I never fucking learn!), some intervention was needed.
Intervention in the form of YouTube.
Blessed YouTube.
I've been doing 8fit's routine every day for weeks, and...
My back is still wrecked.
This didn't help at all.
If anything I'm in more pain and it's now my entire back, and my shoulders, and my neck, and the back of my skull.
Kill me?
Please?
I don't think it's 8fit's fault, though.
Because these are some kickass stretches and I like doing them.
Even if I am still a walking groan in spite of them.
My back's just fucked and this routine isn't cutting it for my specific brand of "rip my spine out; just rip it out and show me so I can scold the motherfucker for doing this to me" pain.
...
But if you've got minor back pain or just want to stretch your body out without needing a goddamn degree to understand what the fuck most instructors are talking about, then 8fit's your girl/guy/enviably fit amorphous blob.
...
I'm going to end up doing fucking yoga.
Goddamnit, spine.
Why are you like this?
...
I am now doing yoga:
Very basic yoga.
But this?
This is nice.
It hurts in the almost masochistic "fuck me sideways it hurts so good" way that proper stretching is meant to.
It's only been a few days though, so who knows if this will help in the longterm but to whichever body-based deity is listening:
Because... ow:
.............................................
Kristen Bell and Dax Shepard just annihilating me yet again:
"It's a crunchy after dinner snack and it's shaped like a big worm."
"They look like fingers!"
"Eucalyptus!"
This was so stressful and I loved it and I think I broke a rib.
.............................................
Magic Tests:
First of all, I loved this.
Any time and all time spent hanging out with Kate Daniels' surly, magically gifted ward, Julie is time well fucking spent.
I could read about her growling inside in her own head at the stupidity of most/all of the human and supernatural race for mostly ever.
She's like a hissing Sphinx and I adore her.
Almost as much as Kate.
And it truly is a testament to Ilona Andrews' abilities as a writer because Julie could so easily be accused of being written as a miniature Kate.
Which she is.
But she's still Julie.
Every grumpy, magic-addled, teenage inch of her.
But you can see her slowly taking on Kate's shakily controlled temper, her foul mouth, the way she approaches a mystery, her signature fighting moves (don't fuck with these women, you will end up with various broken things, and that's if they're having a good day...), her unshakable loyalty and her propensity to flirt with innapropriate alpha-bros with squishy insides.
It's so fucking clever.
You hardly even notice it happening.
And it's not forced or unbelievable.
It's just exactly what happens to a child as they grow.
...
I love it.
I love it so much.
Especially when she mouths off.
Mouthy women are my lifeblood.
Literature, please keep feeding them to me, I'm fucking insatiable.
.............................................
The art of Matthew Sharack aka. Sharackula:
How he wasn't involved in The Boxtrolls baffles me.
This just is Cheesebridge.Try to tell me otherwise, I dare you.
.............................................
Finally, the fam are together:
It only took 6 months and several cancelled orders later.
(Amazon, you suck sometimes)
But look at themmmm!
And yes, I needed both versions of The Asset.
(In my head I call him Phibi, short for amphibian man)
It was completely necessary to my existence.
.............................................
The fact that when there's a faulty link on Goodreads, they do this:
The whimsy is killing me.
Also, I'm going to read this book.
Laurence McNaughton's, It Happened One Doomsday:
The only way I can describe this book is to liken it to watching one of those shows that's all drama, fluff and stuffed to the gills with unbelievable plot points.
Like The Vampire Diaries, Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Lost Girl and Wynonna Earp.
And it sounds as if I'm saying this like it's a bad thing.
Oh, no.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
Because I love supernatural fluff.
It's my happy place.
You can't even imagine how many times I've watched Charmed, and I don't even like Charmed.
But it's stupid and full of crappy digital effects and horrible acting and I lap it up like a thirsty vampire in a human drought.
That's how bad I've got it for this stuff.
And It Happened One Doomsday is unabashed fuel to my insatiable need.
✓ It's got magic.
(Crystal magic to be exact, which is why I spent the whole time reading it with the Steven Universe theme tune playing on repeat in my head)
✓ It's got a reluctant chosen one.
✓ It's got romance.
✓ Action.
✓ Violence.
✓ A quirky and sometimes inappropriate bestie.
✓ Car chases.
(Kind of hard to avoid when your [spoiler] Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's [spoiler] horsey steeds are replaced with sentient, demon sports/muscle cars.)
✓ Magical portals and apocalyptic scrolls.
✓ And one mother of a cliffhanger that I'm not even angry about because there's no way I'm not buying the next in the series.
It's a done deal.
No backsies.
All I have to do is stroke my bank account's whimpering back and make assurances about it not hurting that much...
.............................................
Speaking of enjoyable trash:
Siren is currently filling that requirement.
And doing a damn fine job of it.
Even if my deep and unrelenting phobia of the ocean is spasming every time there's a scene in the water, usually accompanied by something bitey.
...
My worst fucking nightmare.
I'd question why I do this to myself but I already know.
I'm a glutton for punishment with a masochistic need to gorge on anything vaguely fantastical, even if said fantastical thing is set in something that's too fucking deep and filled with too many fucking unknowns that could use you as a stick of gum because they feel like it.
...
At least on land I can see what's going to chew me up and use my bones as toothpicks.
This elusive, scaly, finned shit just isn't funny!:
The effects are mostly pretty cool for a tv show, though.
And Eline Powell is believably otherworldly.
(Every time she says "Bye-bye" I melt a little inside)
And there's a queer polyamorous relationship at the centre of the show and it's kind of mindblowingly unfussy.
It's just there and no one gives a fuck.
It's not even something to question.
...
When has that ever happened in the history television?
Suleikha Snyder wrote an interesting article about it, here.
...
I want to watch it again.
I think I'm going to watch it again.
Where's season 2, Amazon?
I need it now!
.............................................
This tweet:
The Universe twirled her skirt. "You know the best part?" she said, then opened two black holes. "It has pockets!"— John Wiswell (@Wiswell) January 25, 2019
.............................................
My boyyyyyysssssss:
Only mildly disappointed the floral suit won't be gracing the official cover but fuck it.
Look at my boy, Baz and all his glorious hair blowing in the wind.
How could I possibly be disappointed in that?
Hurry the fuck up, October!
I've got needs.
.............................................
Watch this.
Watch until your face hurts!:
Ma première #Flipnote ! pic.twitter.com/xhjHPzSOEO— -Boulet- (@Bouletcorp) March 9, 2019
.............................................
Elena K. Arnold's, Damsel:
Look at this cover.
I'm swooning.
“The damsels are a legacy of nothing—no memory, no past, no family. Accept your nothing, and pray it stays that way.”
One of the great literary loves of my life is Angela Carter.
To me, she is the queen of Magic Realism and powerful women.
Everyone else is merely a usurper in waiting.
(Tell me otherwise and I will fight you)
I doubt I will find any author who can surpass my love for this woman, but every now and then a story comes along that carries the heart of Angela Carter's message.
That women are powerful creatures.
Beyond and because of their sex.
Damsel is one of those stories.
Elana K. Arnold takes the classic trope of the imprisoned princess in need of rescue from a fearsome beast by the fated prince... and claws it to precise, bloodied pieces.
The story starts like every other, "Once upon a time...", and so on but almost immediately the heroine's voice becomes the dominant force in the narrative.
(Something almost unheard of in classic fairy tales; she is either voiceless - literally sometimes - or someone speaks for her, as if she is a mute doll with no thoughts of her own)
She is nameless and unclothed.
The prince names her and clothes her.
She has no memory and no family.
The prince tells her so and without option she must believe it.
She is taken and given no alternative.
And her first question, her first honest, unaffected thought is:
Do I have no say in this matter?
By all accounts, no, she does not.
She's an object, a trophy to be spirited away from her "supposed" captor to a "better" life as her rescuer's bride and glorified incubator.
"Here is the truth," the queen mother said, and Ama felt herself go straight in her chair, felt her spine tingle, felt the hairs on her body stand on end. "It is a king's world in which we find ourselves, Ama. A woman, you see, is a vessel. And it is a vessel's duty to be filled. What is a cup without wine? What is a vase without flowers? A cup, you might say, is not a cup at all, until it has felt the flow of wine within it. A vase without an arrangement of blooms to hold? Not a vase, at all, really. A vase is meant to be filled. [...] And you will be a vase that will hold the most precious, the rarest flower of all—the son of my son, the future king. You are important, Ama. You are special, for you alone can bear the prince to come. No one else. Only you. Only the king can plant the seed, and only you can grow it. It is a unique privilege. A unique duty. To create a king! What more, dear girl, could a damsel hope for?"
To the male who rescued her she is nothing but a pretty body to be used to hasten the legend of his own story.
She's not a person.
She's not allowed her own story.
She's nothing but "his".
Her body:
"Your hand does not only belong to you, Ama. I found you, I named you, I brought you here. You are my bride, and your flesh is my flesh."
Her talent, her time, her voice:
"I believe your time in the glassblower's presence and his humouring your desires to . . . make such things as this"—and here he waved a dismissive hand at Ama's dragon—"has filled your head with all the wrong ideas. You see, Ama, it is for men to create. It is for men to decide. It is for men to speak. It is your place to listen, and follow, and gestate. And those are no small things! For without women to listen, how would the men's words be heard? Without your fertile womb, how could my son hope to grow? You are important, Ama. Desperately important. But do not overreach."
She belongs solely to him but even then, no matter how small she makes herself to fit his requirements:
“That is the way of being a woman, to carve away at herself, to fit herself to the task, but, also, to be able to carve herself in a different way, when a different shape is needed.”
To shrink herself against his wrath, it's never enough, it never could be:
"Everything was her blame. Too stupid to find her way back to her room. Too effusive with her emotions. Too inquisitive with the kitchen girl. She was too much and not enough, both in the same instant. Too big and too small; too bright and too dull; too affectionate and not affectionate enough.
I'll be less, Ama promised, though to whom, she didn't know."
As a living, breathing human being, let alone a woman, this is so devastatingly familiar that it shouldn't have been so shocking to read.
But it was.
And I'm glad it was, that I can still be shocked after a millennia of degradation.
Because this, this, is what women deal with every day of their lives.
Not just in stories but in places we should feel safe.
If we ever feel safe.
From passing comments in the street.
"You're a lovely thing," said the first man. Up close to her now, close enough to touch, Ama saw each part that made up his face: the pleasing bronze tone of his skin; the symmetry of his brows, arched above flecked green eyes; his full, bowed lips, stretched into a smile now; his teeth, mostly even, the blackness where one was missing from the bottom row.
Ama did not respond. She stood, guarded, waiting.
"Don't you have anything to say, when a fellow gives you a compliment?" the man asked. "I said you're pretty, didn't I? What do you say to that?"
"Yes," said Ama, for she knew she was attractive; everyone she had met had told her so, from the king to the maids.
The other man, thicker, taller, with a beard he seemed to prize, so well was it groomed, scoffed, "So you think you are pretty, do you?" And, to his companion, "Quite a head on this one. Her ma never taught her a thing about modesty, you reckon, Gib?"
The man called Gib shook his head, "You're not so great," he said. "I've seen prettier. Ay, Rand? We've seen prettier by far."
To demeaning remarks passed off as "joking around".
Mansplaining. Fucking mansplaining.
Being touched when no one has the right to touch us.
I haven't felt safe in my own body since puberty hit and there's something so fundamentally wrong about that.
And it makes me so angry.
This book made me feel so angry.
And so damn small.
And so very threatened, that I could feel myself retreating inside.
It used the structure of a fairy tale to mirror the structure of a woman's life.
And it's so true.
It's so true it scares me that there isn't a woman out there who doesn't feel this way.
Who isn't afraid to walk home alone at night.
To make themselves heard in a job they're absolutely qualified for.
Who has to explain that she belongs to herself and no one else.
No one has dominion over her.
And the scariest part of all is that there are men who may read this and call it being sensitive, being female, as if there's something inherently lesser about my sex, about feeling.
Who see nothing wrong with perceiving a woman as a sex object, judging them solely on their appearance. And if they find them lacking? Dismiss their existence entirely or act with disgust towards them.
"I made you beautiful," Emory said again, again.
"You keep saying that," Ama answered. "But I did not ask for your beauty. I made beauty all on my own. I did not need you then."
There are men who think that's okay.
Who take joy in making women feel small.
Who want their women docile and obedient.
To say thank you for nothing at all.
Less than nothing.
For making them feel as if they're nothing.
These men exist.
We see them every single day.
We see them in positions of ultimate power.
We see them walking down the street.
In our own homes.
And that's fucking terrifying.
But with books like Arnold's, Damsel.
With women, not finding their own voices, because we've always bloody well had them, but making themselves heard.
"One should not make a pet out of a wild beast."
Standing up for themselves no matter how many times they're told to be quiet.
Maybe, just maybe, things are getting better.
Changing.
Damsel is a book I would want my child, if I had one, to read.
Female, male, non-binary.
I'd want them to read it to see that women aren't "vessels".
We're whole, worthy, unfettered entities.
We're so many things it would be demeaning to reduce them to a list.
We're more than a series of adjectives.
I'd want my child to know that.
I want everyone to know that.
To know that men can be like this but so many aren't.
That they wouldn't dream of treating an entire gender differently solely because they aren't their own.
That the very idea is abhorrent to them.
Just to fucking know!
I wish I'd been given this book when my entire world was changing because of something so arbitrary as an alteration in hormones.
Maybe then I wouldn't still be, or have ever been, so fucking afraid and so damn angry.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
"She was of the sun and from the sun. She was not a plaything of this little man."
.............................................
.............................................
Sometimes the comments on Goodreads are far too fucking relatable:
It me.
.............................................
For the love of Moomins:
.............................................
Hannah Moskowitz's, Teeth:
"A fish. A boy. The ugliest thing I have ever seen."
I think... I think I broke something.
In my chest.
It hurts.
And it won't stop.
This book.
This fucking book.
I don't even know where to start.
This is the first I've read of Hannah Moskowitz's work and I think I love her?
No, I definitely love her.
Because this book.
This fucking book.
I wasn't prepared.
I was so not prepared for how intensely this story would affect me.
When I read the synopsis I figured I'd be getting some magic realism, a little LBGT+ romance, a fucked up family and if I was lucky, a new voice in literature to fawn over.
And I did.
I got all those things, in abundance, but I got so, so much more.
If you've ever lived with grief then you'll know that it isn't only something that comes after the loss of someone or something you love.
Grief can take you to your knees at any time and for any reason.
You can grieve something even before it's happened.
As it's happening.
It's the cost of loving.
Loving so much that you would ruin yourself to take away the hurt.
"And I can't stop crying for anything in the world right then. And I can't let go of him. Nothing could make me let go of that kid. The house could fall into the sea and crush everybody and we could go underwater and I would hold him the whole time."
Burn the whole fucking world down to make it better even for a little while.
"I can't save you and you can't fix me and I still want to be here and I am scared out of my fucking mind and why won't you get well?"
The terrible, unspeakable things you would do for those you love.
"It's so stupid. I would feed my brother dolphins if it would save him. I'd feed him babies if it would save him. Just . . . Dylan, okay?
It hits me for the first time that that might not be an okay thing to feel."
Even if inside all you want to do is escape and you're being eaten alive by the guilt.
"My room shakes in the wind, but even though my dresser and my mirror are rattling, I still hear the screaming. I wish the house would finally crumble into the sea, just to make noise, just because it's going to happen someday anyway, just to be something else to think about. I wish we would all just fall apart so I wouldn't have to listen to the downfall happen, so slowly, so painfully. Clawing at us."
But you'll stay.
You'll always stay.
For me, this is what Teeth is about.
Love isn't a simple thing. It couldn't be.
It's violent and messy and it can turn you inside out in the best and worst ways.
Hannah Moskowitz gave us a book about a fucked up kid.
"She sits up and hugs me tight. My head is against her collarbone. When did she get so thin? I feel like I should be holding her and comforting her, but I just want her to hold me. I want to fold my arms into my chest so she can get her arms all the way around me, and not a bit of me will be in the open air. I don't want to be exposed to anything right now. And she lets me. She shields me with all of her. Maybe I understand more right now than I ever did."
A fucked up fishboy.
' "I don't feel anything," he insists, his voice so weak.
So I'm crashing into him, and my arms are all the way around him, and he's so small and shivering and I'm holding him as hard as I can, and just when I think he's about to crack and say the three words I don't know how to deal with, he whispers, "I hate humans," and he's crying as hard as I've ever seen.
And I feel everything.'
And their unfathomable love for their families and perhaps more importantly, each other.
' "And go where?"
"I don't know. Far away. Different water. Somewhere. Anywhere. And stay the fuck out of sight this time, okay, wherever you end up? No getting on the rocks to flirt with human boys, idiot."
He rolls his eyes. I want to smile.'
And the lengths they'll go to keep that love safe and free, even if it ultimately means sacrificing it.
"I smile like I'm listening, but I let myself drift off a little. I get like this in the evenings now. I stop fishing, and nothing seems real until I give everyone a weak smile goodnight and go up and touch the glass of my window, so cold.
And something small and insignificant inside me shatters, just like every night, and feelings hit too hard for me to stand. I bend at the waist and cling to the windowsill. I won't scream. I won't throw myself against the walls until the supports give and we fall into the ocean. I won't think about swimming as hard as I can."
This book.
This fucking book.
It tore me up.
And I think I'll be torn up for a while.
But that's okay...
"Because Teeth, okay? Just . . . Teeth."
.............................................
I know this is fan art for Red Dead Redemption but... :
...I'm getting so many Stucky feels.
Sometimes the comments on Goodreads are far too fucking relatable:
It me.
.............................................
For the love of Moomins:
Little illustration I did of Moomin and Snufkin. pic.twitter.com/KA9o4za0El— Riikka Auvinen (@RiikkaPaints) May 21, 2016
.............................................
Hannah Moskowitz's, Teeth:
"A fish. A boy. The ugliest thing I have ever seen."
I think... I think I broke something.
In my chest.
It hurts.
And it won't stop.
This book.
This fucking book.
I don't even know where to start.
This is the first I've read of Hannah Moskowitz's work and I think I love her?
No, I definitely love her.
Because this book.
This fucking book.
I wasn't prepared.
I was so not prepared for how intensely this story would affect me.
When I read the synopsis I figured I'd be getting some magic realism, a little LBGT+ romance, a fucked up family and if I was lucky, a new voice in literature to fawn over.
And I did.
I got all those things, in abundance, but I got so, so much more.
If you've ever lived with grief then you'll know that it isn't only something that comes after the loss of someone or something you love.
Grief can take you to your knees at any time and for any reason.
You can grieve something even before it's happened.
As it's happening.
It's the cost of loving.
Loving so much that you would ruin yourself to take away the hurt.
"And I can't stop crying for anything in the world right then. And I can't let go of him. Nothing could make me let go of that kid. The house could fall into the sea and crush everybody and we could go underwater and I would hold him the whole time."
Burn the whole fucking world down to make it better even for a little while.
"I can't save you and you can't fix me and I still want to be here and I am scared out of my fucking mind and why won't you get well?"
The terrible, unspeakable things you would do for those you love.
"It's so stupid. I would feed my brother dolphins if it would save him. I'd feed him babies if it would save him. Just . . . Dylan, okay?
It hits me for the first time that that might not be an okay thing to feel."
Even if inside all you want to do is escape and you're being eaten alive by the guilt.
"My room shakes in the wind, but even though my dresser and my mirror are rattling, I still hear the screaming. I wish the house would finally crumble into the sea, just to make noise, just because it's going to happen someday anyway, just to be something else to think about. I wish we would all just fall apart so I wouldn't have to listen to the downfall happen, so slowly, so painfully. Clawing at us."
But you'll stay.
You'll always stay.
For me, this is what Teeth is about.
Love isn't a simple thing. It couldn't be.
It's violent and messy and it can turn you inside out in the best and worst ways.
Hannah Moskowitz gave us a book about a fucked up kid.
"She sits up and hugs me tight. My head is against her collarbone. When did she get so thin? I feel like I should be holding her and comforting her, but I just want her to hold me. I want to fold my arms into my chest so she can get her arms all the way around me, and not a bit of me will be in the open air. I don't want to be exposed to anything right now. And she lets me. She shields me with all of her. Maybe I understand more right now than I ever did."
A fucked up fishboy.
' "I don't feel anything," he insists, his voice so weak.
So I'm crashing into him, and my arms are all the way around him, and he's so small and shivering and I'm holding him as hard as I can, and just when I think he's about to crack and say the three words I don't know how to deal with, he whispers, "I hate humans," and he's crying as hard as I've ever seen.
And I feel everything.'
And their unfathomable love for their families and perhaps more importantly, each other.
' "And go where?"
"I don't know. Far away. Different water. Somewhere. Anywhere. And stay the fuck out of sight this time, okay, wherever you end up? No getting on the rocks to flirt with human boys, idiot."
He rolls his eyes. I want to smile.'
And the lengths they'll go to keep that love safe and free, even if it ultimately means sacrificing it.
"I smile like I'm listening, but I let myself drift off a little. I get like this in the evenings now. I stop fishing, and nothing seems real until I give everyone a weak smile goodnight and go up and touch the glass of my window, so cold.
And something small and insignificant inside me shatters, just like every night, and feelings hit too hard for me to stand. I bend at the waist and cling to the windowsill. I won't scream. I won't throw myself against the walls until the supports give and we fall into the ocean. I won't think about swimming as hard as I can."
This book.
This fucking book.
It tore me up.
And I think I'll be torn up for a while.
But that's okay...
"Because Teeth, okay? Just . . . Teeth."
.............................................
I know this is fan art for Red Dead Redemption but... :
Такие дела pic.twitter.com/okz6C1pVVz— KaySD (@KaySD999) March 13, 2019
That arm lick...
.............................................
I love this soft idiot:
I love this soft idiot:
He has the dirtiest (I don't know what he's digging for, or more disturbingly, up but either way it can't be good; what with him being a fluffy minion of hell...), softest, heftiest paws and crazy tufts behind his ears that make him look like a deranged baby bird.
Which is probably the only reason he gets away with being a total thundertwunt 80% of the time.
...
Humans are such suckers.
.............................................
.............................................
The more 早稻 posts, the more I get all mushy inside:
— 早稻 (@tataka510) March 13, 2019
(҂⌣̀_⌣́) pic.twitter.com/4SOt98mE57— 早稻 (@tataka510) March 12, 2019
听深夜食堂的音乐画画，画着画着就饿了……(˶‾᷄⁻̫‾᷅˵) pic.twitter.com/sJP7AlZR2h— 早稻 (@tataka510) March 12, 2019
Ink's so beautiful when wielded by the right person.
.............................................
.............................................
M'Lady, Bardugo and her upcoming release, Ninth House:
University setting?
Dark magic?
Angst, angst, angst?
And her queenliness' trademark awesome as fuck prose?
...
Come to me, my pretty.
Read an excerpt, here.
And pre-order your copy, here.
I'm pre-ordered already.
I was pre-ordered before a synopsis had even been released.
She could write a book about hiccuping fruit bats and I'd pre-order it without blinking.
Some authors, y'know?
.............................................
K. M. Shea's, Red Rope of Fate:
I read this immediately after the emotional fuckfests, Damsel and Teeth.
I needed a breather.
And this was exactly the right book to choose.
✓ A straight forward interracial romance with a smattering of low-key drama.
✓ A heroine who's soft and savage.
✓ A brooding alpha who isn't a complete dick.
✓ Cute as fuck banter between the MCs.
✓ HEA
Yes.
This is exactly what i needed.
It didn't blow my mind or anything but damn, it was relaxing and satisfying and my heart didn't bleed out my chest from being punched in the feels perpetually...
I read this immediately after the emotional fuckfests, Damsel and Teeth.
I needed a breather.
And this was exactly the right book to choose.
✓ A straight forward interracial romance with a smattering of low-key drama.
✓ A heroine who's soft and savage.
✓ A brooding alpha who isn't a complete dick.
✓ Cute as fuck banter between the MCs.
✓ HEA
Yes.
This is exactly what i needed.
It didn't blow my mind or anything but damn, it was relaxing and satisfying and my heart didn't bleed out my chest from being punched in the feels perpetually...
There's only so much a girl can take, y'know?
.............................................
Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald:
This is a weird one.
Because this is a monthly roundup of things I enjoyed, right?
And I did not enjoy this.
I knew I wouldn't.
I prepared myself.
But apparently you can't prepare yourself enough for this kind of thing because whoah.
Just... whoah.
The only word I can think of to describe it is shambolic.
A shitshow.
A clusterfuck.
What even was the story?
Was there a story?
Was this just to build us up for the next movie?
Because if so, yeah, didn't work, Rowling.
Didn't fucking work.
I hate prep movies.
They never deliver.
I'm always bored.
And they always fail to make me desperate to see the next in the series, which defeats their entire purpose!
Ugh.
Just ugh.
And Pineapple Head wasn't even the worst thing in it.
I was so prepared for all my indignation to be shoved in his stupid face.
That's where my rage was meant to go.
And you fucked me over there as well, didn't you, Rowling?
Goddamnit.
Okay, rant probably, maybe, possibly over.
Why is this in the March Monthlies, you ask?
...
Because I'm Potter-loving trash and it may have been a dumpster fire of a movie that fills my Hufflepuff heart with twitchy, venom-laced sorrow.
But it was still the Potterverse.
It was still crazy beautiful.
And the few creatures we did get to see (come on Rowling, you made a movie about Fantastic Beasts, where the fuck are they?) were still lovely and silly and all kinds of magical.
Sure, you:
→ Character assassinated someone I love.
→ Will, in the future of the story, reduce a woman of colour with powerful magic to nothing more than an indentured servant to a mass murder who wields her as merciless weapon, and then you have her killed by one of the softest male characters in the whole Potterverse who just so happens to have a deep affinity with all living creatures and wouldn't hurt, well, anyone/thing.
(Real nice, Rowling. Congratu-fucking-lations on that piece of marginalising, misogynistic, backwards beyond belief douchery. Here, have a gold fucking star to go with your complete lack of moral compass)
→ Employed a believed abusive male.
→ Fridged yet another woman to further a man's story.
(When will this end?!)
→ Oh, and forgot to give us a narrative.
...
Okay, maybe I shouldn't be watching this again because wow, but...
... as I said, Potter-loving trash sitting right here, or should I say Scamander-loving trash, who apparently has no shame?
...
I'm incredibly sorry.
I will watch this again.
Probably multiple times.
I suck.
I do know this.
But...
This is a weird one.
Because this is a monthly roundup of things I enjoyed, right?
And I did not enjoy this.
I knew I wouldn't.
I prepared myself.
But apparently you can't prepare yourself enough for this kind of thing because whoah.
Just... whoah.
The only word I can think of to describe it is shambolic.
A shitshow.
A clusterfuck.
What even was the story?
Was there a story?
Was this just to build us up for the next movie?
Because if so, yeah, didn't work, Rowling.
Didn't fucking work.
I hate prep movies.
They never deliver.
I'm always bored.
And they always fail to make me desperate to see the next in the series, which defeats their entire purpose!
Ugh.
Just ugh.
And Pineapple Head wasn't even the worst thing in it.
I was so prepared for all my indignation to be shoved in his stupid face.
That's where my rage was meant to go.
And you fucked me over there as well, didn't you, Rowling?
Goddamnit.
Okay, rant probably, maybe, possibly over.
Why is this in the March Monthlies, you ask?
...
Because I'm Potter-loving trash and it may have been a dumpster fire of a movie that fills my Hufflepuff heart with twitchy, venom-laced sorrow.
But it was still the Potterverse.
It was still crazy beautiful.
And the few creatures we did get to see (come on Rowling, you made a movie about Fantastic Beasts, where the fuck are they?) were still lovely and silly and all kinds of magical.
Sure, you:
→ Character assassinated someone I love.
→ Will, in the future of the story, reduce a woman of colour with powerful magic to nothing more than an indentured servant to a mass murder who wields her as merciless weapon, and then you have her killed by one of the softest male characters in the whole Potterverse who just so happens to have a deep affinity with all living creatures and wouldn't hurt, well, anyone/thing.
(Real nice, Rowling. Congratu-fucking-lations on that piece of marginalising, misogynistic, backwards beyond belief douchery. Here, have a gold fucking star to go with your complete lack of moral compass)
→ Employed a believed abusive male.
→ Fridged yet another woman to further a man's story.
(When will this end?!)
→ Oh, and forgot to give us a narrative.
...
Okay, maybe I shouldn't be watching this again because wow, but...
... as I said, Potter-loving trash sitting right here, or should I say Scamander-loving trash, who apparently has no shame?
...
I'm incredibly sorry.
I will watch this again.
Probably multiple times.
I suck.
I do know this.
But...
On an up note, I am so here for Jude Law as Dumbledore.
(Minus the weird accent; don't fuck with your glorious voice, Law, let us enjoy that shit in piece)
Damn, son.
Depp wishes he could tap that.
.............................................
I don't know why but this video of Brie Larson dancing to The xx's, On Hold (although I think this might be a different mix? That I for some reason can't find? Which is annoying because I like it better?) makes me very happy:
.............................................
This is just... :
a baby hellhound is called a heckpup— Claire, et al. (@searchqueery) March 9, 2019
... everything.
.............................................
Grace Draven's, The Undying King:
Essentially, this is Belle and the Beast do the nasty.
...
And it's glorious.
'He stared at his unexpected guest, slumbering so innocently in his dead wife's solar. "We will consume each other girl. I think it's inevitable." '
...
And it's glorious.
There's not much else to say, really.
Other than, Grace Draven's an actual queen.
I love her truly.
I wish this was longer.
Smut, smut, smut.
.............................................
Yes!
This!:
If only I could tabula rasa my favourite books out my brain and do it all over again.
You have no idea.
No earthly idea.
How much I wish that was possible.
Come on superpowers.
Descend upon me already!
This!:
You know you've found your new favorite book when you can't stop reading but absolutely want to stop reading because the idea itself of reaching the end could break your heart.— Coralie Jubénot (@Merwild) March 22, 2019
You have no idea.
No earthly idea.
How much I wish that was possible.
Come on superpowers.
Descend upon me already!
.............................................
Oh, Calin:
This wouldn't be as good if her expression wasn't so full of pride.
Werewolf girls, assemble.
This wouldn't be as good if her expression wasn't so full of pride.
Werewolf girls, assemble.
.............................................
This:
...
Eilosu.
...
I actually quite like that.
Can I be in a book now, Maas?
Please?
.............................................
My heart...
Just... the best.
I've seen him described as a floral scented sanitary towel before but I don't know, "milk carton" is just doing things to me.
Illustrators are always so sure with their lines.
It's fucking sorcery.
Valentina Remenar:
Stuff like this makes me drool:
After seeing this I spent a few minutes stroking the edition I'm lucky enough to own and cursing myself out for not learning to emboss while I was at art school.
...
Pakidge:
This:
Eilosu.
...
I actually quite like that.
Can I be in a book now, Maas?
Please?
.............................................
Ana Godis may be taking a break from Still Life - a break that's slowly killing me - but her fan art is keeping me alive:
My heart...
.............................................
icandrawthingz's description of Tamlin the Tool:
Just... the best.
I've seen him described as a floral scented sanitary towel before but I don't know, "milk carton" is just doing things to me.
.............................................
Illustrators are always so sure with their lines.
It's fucking sorcery.
.............................................
Valentina Remenar:
.............................................
Stuff like this makes me drool:
After seeing this I spent a few minutes stroking the edition I'm lucky enough to own and cursing myself out for not learning to emboss while I was at art school.
...
.............................................
amazon: we shipped your package! it should deliver by 8pm tomorrow!— erica (@lucysaries) March 19, 2019
me, nose pressed against the door, fogging the glass as i breathe: 𝗽𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗱𝗴𝗲
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