august

September 01, 2019


Things I enjoyed in the month of August:
(It's my birthday month, fellow weirdos)

Patricia Briggs', Hunting Ground:

The more I read of the Mercyverse, the harder I fall for these characters and the supernatural world they inhabit.
Especially the main couple in the Alpha & Omega spinoff series, Anna and Charles.
And I think it's because of how damaged they both are, and how Patricia Briggs doesn't shy away from it.
So often in Fantasy, specifically Shifter-based fantasy, when a predestined mated pair finally meet, it's game over.
They've found each other.
They're each other's furry lobsters.
All problems are solved.
And I don't actually mind that trope. I take great joy in a couple I'm rooting for being happy and whole together.
But it's not exactly believable.
Especially when they've been through the kind of trauma Anna and Charles have.
Charles is essentially the executioner of his familial pack. It's a job he does well, but at complete odds to the soft, surprisingly un-preachy, moral man he is.
He's a killer but he takes no pride or enjoyment in it.
He solely has his duty and because of it, he's an extremely haunted man.
Anna is different.
Specifically hunted and turned by her local pack, for the sole reason of breaking and controlling the rare breed of Shifter she is, Anna's trauma stems from her humanity being ripped away.
Beaten and sexually abused for years by what should have been her family, if she had chosen to turn instead of being forced, has left her skittish, afraid of any and all men, afraid of herself.
When Charles finds her, their mating bond is almost instantaneous and she accepts that, embraces it, but it does not in any shape or form remedy their issues.
They love each other.
They need and want each other.
But it will take years for their relationship to be one of unshakable trust.


"I keep feeling like we're doing it wrong," she said. "That this bond between us is meant to be much more than we're allowing it to be."
"There is no wrong between us," he told her.
She made a frustrated noise so he supposed that wasn't the answer she was looking for. Charles tried again. "We have time, love. As long as we are careful to set our feet on the path we want to follow, we have a very long time to get it right."
I've never encountered this in Fantasy before.
Or at least not to this extent.
I'm so inured to mates (of all supernatural species) cementing their bond almost immediately and just... doing their thing.
Love heals all wounds! and all that barbaric, schmaltzy bullshit.
As I said, I don't hate this trope.
But I love Anna and Charles' story more, because it feels real.
The care and attention they put into loving each other feels more honest and true than just existing as the other half of someone and that being enough to solve everything.
From my experience, that isn't what love is.
It's more complicated than that.
Be it love for your family, your partner, your pet, or your chosen family, love is a daily act.
It ranges from turning yourself into a monster for the people you cherish, to the smallest acts of kindness, which in some ways are the most important of all.


Anna surveyed the scene. "Okay," she said. "Who's been being a grouch."
He looked at her. For such a look, she thought, she'd have done a lot more than kill. He patted the couch beside him, but she crawled into his lap instead.
"I've had a really bad night," she said. "Any chance we can get some sleep?"
Charles kissed her, a long, involved kiss that took no prisoners. When he was finished, she licked her lips, and said in a voice that was a little breathless, "Does that mean no?"
"I would slay dragons for you," he told her. "I suppose that finding an unoccupied bedroom will be easier."


I so appreciate this love story.
The slow, somewhat chaotic burn of two fictional characters falling for each other is so lovely to be a part of.
And what makes it even better is that it's nestled quietly in the midst a genuinely interesting story.
Getting to know the politics, lore and hierarchy of the supernatural community of Briggs' world of Washington/Montana-based Shifters is making me nothing short of giddy.
But it's been a gradual process.
It wasn't an instant match.
I think, though, I think I've settled in to stay a while.

Thank you, Briggs, for inviting me in.

.............................................


Not a total Betty.
But it did send my Brie Larson crush into overdrive.
And put my Chapodiphobia (or Cephalophobia, or whatever the fuck it's called!) to the ultimate test.
Tentacles and fuzzy animals does not a cute hybrid make.
...
I can't unsee it!

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Luxie:
Once upon an internet,  I fell in love with a curse-happy gamer.


It's like if Leslie Knope and April Ludgate had a murder baby.
...

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My sister bought me flowers:

One of my favourite flowers.
Because I did something brave.
...
They're dead now because... me.
But I loved them while they lasted.
However, this illustration by Forensics and Flowers feels very appropriate:

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Richard Brautigan's, So the Wind Won't Blow it All Away:

As I sit here on August 1st, 1979, my ear is pressed up against the past as if to the wall of a house that no longer exists.
I can hear the sound of the redwing blackbirds and the wind blowing hard against the cattails. They rustle in the wind like ghost swords in battle and there is a steady lapping of the pond at the shore's edge, which I belong to with my imagination.
The blackbirds sound like melancholy exclamation marks typed on the summer late afternoon...


Secrets.
We all have them.
Small ones.
Devastating ones.
Inconsequential ones.
Ones we'll never let slip.
And ones we bury deep and let gnaw at us.
Those are the secrets that are the hardest to let go of.
To finally confess and lift the burden.
So, when the time finally does come, that secret, that untellable truth, becomes almost impossible to voice.
It's taken on weight and consequence.
It lives and breathes and chokes you.
And the telling of it becomes more a testament to the keeping of the secret than the secret itself.
You'll drown your confessor in a desperate clutch of words just to escape the very thing you're aching to be free of.
And when it's finally said.
And it's gone.
And you're free.
It's seems so small.
It took a sentence, a paragraph, a page.
It should have taken longer.
But it didn't.
And it's still yours.
It remains a cloying film on your skin you can pick at but never be rid of.
It just is.
But you've said it.
You've said it.
You've said it.
What else do you do now but keep talking?

I don't know if liked this book.
But I know I admire it.
There's a quiet devastation in the secret Brautigan let's you in on.
And what's more devastating is that it was the last one he'd ever tell.

.............................................

.............................................

Oooooh:

I haven't even read Circe yet but I loved The Song of Achilles so fucking much that I'm not even worried about it.
It'll kill me.
Totally inevitable.
Done deal.
So, I'll read it and suffer routine mini panic attacks over the tv adaptation until it's actually being broadcast.
...
Business as usual, then.

.............................................

Kristen Callihan's, Moonglow:

Can you die from the squishy feels?
Because I think I died from the squishy feels.
And a salacious carriage scene that seriously compromised my ovaries.
...
What kind of unholy creation is this?!
...
Oh, I can actually answer that.
It's Penny Dreadful with a side of Victorian smutty-times.

Uhhh...
MORE?!

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Televisual goodness:

Outlander season 4

Ooft.
They really ramped up the schmaltz this season.
But... zero? fucks? given?
I know I'm trash for these two and I can't muster a fuck to apologise for it.

...
It won't be returning until 2020, though.
I cry.
Come back to me my faux accented babies!



 Can't Cope, Won't Cope:

Coarse and glorious.
Just how I like my women.


Killing Eve season 2:

The loss of Phoebe Waller-Bridge as the writer for this show is painfully evident in the second season.
It's not that it's bad.
It isn't.
I still enjoy watching Eve and Villanelle endlessly circle each other.
In some ways I prefer when they aren't even together.
But it was missing that unmistakably knowing, female snarl Waller-Bridge has in her writing.
Instead it felt formulaic and lacklustre.
Two things I would never have even contemplated describing this show as before.
But it was.
And it's deeply disappointing.

It does remain a fascinating show, however.
To see a cast of women (and this an extremely female show) take unchecked pleasure in violence, rail against fulfilling expected heteronormative roles, not have children or be questioned about not having children, having fun doing whatever the fuck they want, and doing this all while dealing with day-to-day bullshit is... shocking.
Because I've never seen it; in tv, at least.
I've never seen this amount of pleasure in being a woman celebrated so unashamedly.
I've never seen a woman revel in her sexuality without using it as a seduction device.
Seduction is a huge element in this show but it's more of a threat than a pleasure, and it's controlled solely by each and every woman who wields it.
...
How often is that shown on screen?
How often are women clearly shown as other women see them instead of the stereotyped sex kittens,  damsels in distress, or hateful man-hating bitches.
Wounded.
Infantilised.
Princesses.
In desperate need of rescue.
And these are just a few of the expected tropes that come to mind when thinking of how women are represented in cinema.
Eve and Villanelle are none of these things and all of these things.
They actively defy these characteristics, and by doing so they show aspects of being a women so rarely acknowledged, let alone shown, in the arts.
But they also use these clichéd roles to their advantage, turning them against their enemies and their loved ones.
(There's a moment where Eve's husband rightly accuses of her gaslighting him and I was shocked, truly shocked, because it's almost always never shown that way. And I loved it. Because it subverts this idea being thrown around right now that women are somehow above this behaviour. That we wouldn't manipulate to get our way. We would and we do, and it needs to be shown. It doesn't make it any less wrong for men to do it, it's equally awful. But to show it so openly? That's really fucking brave writing)
It's fascinating.
It really is.
Because even though I feel and respect these traits in myself, I'm still not at the stage where I'm used to seeing them in other women.
That's what a lifetime of being conditioned by internal misogyny will do for you.
But I am learning to let that go, especially with shows like Killing Eve and Fleabag being made.
And what struck me about this season, more so than last, was the costume design and the effect it has on the entire show.
Villanelle's outfits are almost a subplot themselves.
Because she always wears beautiful clothes.
She is always wearing an outfit.
But they aren't what you expect (have been conditioned) a female assassin to wear.
Women with power in tv/cinema are either sexless or oversexed.
Villanelle (and Eve) are neither.
The costume design in Killing Eve is firmly shown through the female gaze.
The lack of skin on display is, again, shocking.
I'm so used to seeing women draped in skin tight outfits, that are often incredibly beautiful, but in the end, lack interest.
Villanelle's clothes are interesting.
They're indulgent, and flamboyant, and visceral.
They don't follow a theme.
One day she's punkishly pink.

The next she's tailored and detailed.

She's a kid playing dress up and she revels in it.

She uses clothing to lure, and to distract, and to enjoy.

It's a weapon in all senses of the word.
And my favourite outfit, from the entire two seasons (worn in the first), is this one:

This glorious nutcase wears a Dries Van Noten suit while prowling the streets for her next kill.
...
Fuck me, if that's not just the most magnificent thing I ever did see.
Because it's powerful and beautiful and sexy.
And she wears it to commit murder, and for herself, and because she fucking can.
You would never see this in a cis male-made show.
You just wouldn't.
Or if you did, I'd honestly be gobsmacked.
And that's because there are some things only women understand.
Only we feel when we put on certain kinds of clothes.
And when we take them off.
There's this moment in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel (also awesome; watch it, watch it, watch it) where she's lying in bed next to her husband, post-coital, and he asks her about the lines her underwear's left on her skin.
...
He's never seen the tortuous pink labyrinth lingerie imprints on his wife's body.
Granted, it's the 50s, but what the fuck, man?
Lingerie may be beautiful but fuck me, it's an instrument of torture.
Screw waterboarding, just use a bra.
There's nothing quite like the feel of underwire jabbing into your ribs like it's telling an infinite fucking knock-knock joke and there's no goddamn fucking answer.
...
But it's still beautiful and powerful and vulnerable.
Villanelle is all of these things.
And more.
And her clothes are an embodiment of this.
This isn't like watching Sex and the City and Carrie's endless runway of outfits.
This isn't dressing up to get a man.
This is owning the fuck out of who you are and showing it the fuck off.
And I want more.
I want it in every show I watch.
Female.
Male.
Trans.
Non-binary.
Werewolf.
Just let the people/creatures wear what they want!
Okay?
Okay.


Den of Geek and CrimeReads have more in depth articles on this.
Read them if you managed to get through all of that word vomit I just spewed at you and you want upchucked on some more.

Also, the soundtrack continues to kick sapphic murder baby ass:



Fan art:
Rachel Xin

Man Luo


The Magicians season 2:

Something... weird is happening.
I think...
I think I love the show more than the books.
...

The cast is just so... so... gooooood.
And the writers really don't pull any punches with just how fucked up and relentlessly unforgiving Lev Grossman's particular brand of magic is.
Or the amount these idiot sorcerers curse their pretty faces off.
Or just how few fucks some of the characters give.
There's no mollycoddling here.
Life's cruel.
Magic's a manipulative bitch.
Everything sucks.
...

.............................................

How Do You Sleep?:

2:55
He looks so fucking happy.
And in his fucking element.
And I fucking love it.

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Dot Hutchison's, The Summer Children:

Once upon a time there was a little girl who was scared of the dark. Which was silly, even she knew that. There was nothing in the dark to hurt you that wasn't also in the light. You just couldn't see it coming.


I'm crushed.
Entirely, devastatingly crushed.
I don't know how Dot Hutchison keeps doing this to me.
What sorcery she possesses.
What deal she struck with the literary gods to write such beautiful, soft, disturbing prose.
How she manages to make me care more and more about this accidental family of damaged characters with each book.
Not that the why or the how even matters.
Just as long as it never ends.
(It will with the fourth book in the series, though and I'm struggling not to hunt Hutchison down and beg her for more...)
...
I left dents in the pages where I clutched it to my chest after I'd gulped down the last few words and attempted to piece myself back together.
That's how good this book is.
That's what Great storytelling is.
That's why I read and I read and I read.
Because you cannot, cannot, beat that feeling.
And why would I want to?

This book is mine now.
Just like the previous two.
It belongs to me, and it'll safely sit on the library shelves inside my head with the other stories I couldn't and wouldn't let go of.

I'm not doing this story the justice it deserves.
But I can't, y'know?
When a book hits me hard, lances me right in the heart, all reasonable thought just dissipates and I can't find the right words.
It's frustrating.
Because inside I know how I feel.
Alarmingly so.
But I can't articulate it.
I can't tell you all the reasons it's so fucking wonderful.
I can't tell you why you should start this series now.
But what I can tell you is that The Summer Children is a story about the damage so easily inflicted on the innocent.
And what that damage can do to a person because as a society, as a people, we just aren't equipped to handle it, or prevent it, or even help it.
It's a story about the opposing directions this damage can send a person, and what it means to survive.
It's about choice.
It's about family.
Love.
Justice, and what it means to the individual.
Courage.
Empathy.
Strength.
It's about what it means to be haunted and to carry on.
In whatever way you can.


Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was afraid of change. She went out bravely into the world anyway.


I love this book.
I really, really, love this book.

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Rachel Xin's Pole Dancing Princess series:

These will probably piss a lot of people off.
...
To them I say:

And I shall direct them here:

Now tell me this shit isn't bonkers beautiful.
Go on, tell me.
Look at that control!

This glorious creature is Sammy Picone, by the way.
Her Instagram is overflowing with feats of strength and grace that just generally blow my fucking mind:


On feeling low || Before someone comments "there's a sadness in you" (because I get it every time) I'll beat you to it. Yes, I've been feeling sad. And it's been a while. But it's okay. And in my own time it will be okay. . . The world of Instagram had made me feel like there's no point in sharing until I find myself in a better emotional place. Because who wants to hear someone talk about sadness for months. So I've retreated. And in some ways I think that it's been for the better. But in other ways I feel like I've done some people a disservice. Because I've communicated that feeling this way is not okay, not worthy of, not normal. So fuck hiding until I can present a happier, more "likeable" me. Summer 2019.. you've been a rough one. But I'm carrying what you've brought to me. I'm sorting through what needs to be sorted through. I feel like crap. But I see better days approaching. If you're feeling anything like me this summer, let yourself feel. I hear you. You are not alone. And things will make you smile again. || ALSO, here's something positive. I listened to music today for the first time in a while and I felt the urge to pole :) So tomorrow morning, before work, pole and I will be reuniting. Oh happy day.
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Ambivalently Yours:


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A post shared by Ambivalently Yours (@ambivalentlyyours) on


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A post shared by Ambivalently Yours (@ambivalentlyyours) on

Ambivalently Yours is my anonymous online persona, created to facilitate the exploration of feminist convictions by embracing ambivalent emotions. Part of being a feminist is about advocating for a person’s right to choose. This right, however, does not imply there is only one choice, or that a final decision must be reached in order to achieve political change. By allowing myself to work from an ambivalent perspective and accept my conflicting opinions, the passivity of being undecided is transformed into a conscious act of undeciding. To quote queer theorist Jack Halberstam: “I explore a feminist politics that issues not from a doing but from an undoing, not from a being or becoming women but from a refusal to be or become a woman as she has been defined and imagined within Western Philosophy.” (Halberstam, Judith. The Queer Art of Failure. Durham: Duke UP, 2011. 124. Print.) In my work, the refusal to become a woman as prescribed by society, goes beyond replacing traditionally feminine aesthetics with a more neutral or masculine palette. Instead, I aim to reclaim the language of girlhood, distance it from its association to frivolity and naiveté, and embrace aggressively pastel hues and tender emotions as an act of resistance. It is within this duality of refusal and redefinition that Ambivalently Yours cultivates relationships of empathy and feminist agency within an online community of in-betweeners.


These pieces feel like they've been plucked from inside my body and their intimate deformities put quietly on display for everyone to see.

Does everyone feel this fucking crazy, and fragile, and savage all the time?

.............................................


Down a path worn into the woods, past a stream and a hollowed-out log full of pill bugs and termites, was a glass coffin. It rested right on the ground, and in it slept a boy with horns on his head and ears as pointed as knives [...] he'd always been there. And no matter what anyone did, he never, ever woke up.


Fuck.
Fuck.
Fucking.
Fuck.
Holly Black, you slay me.
If Sarah J. Maas is my Fae High Lady, then you, you glorious woman, are my Fairy Queen.

Pages upon pages of dreamy fairytale language juxtaposed against the circadian mundanity of teenage suburbia.
Queer fairy princes slumbering in hyperbolic specimen boxes.
Vengeful, unyielding dryads with virulent voices thick with earth, and age, and death.
Adolescent boys, human and other, cursed and lustful, and so very brave.
And vulnerable female knight errants tripping into love and smashing the Erlking patriarchy while they do it.


Fairfold was a strange place. Dead in the center of the Carling forest, the haunted forest, full of what Hazel's grandfather called Greenies and what her mother called They Themselves or the Folk of the Air. In these woods, it wasn't odd to see a black hare swimming in the creek―although rabbits don't usually much care for swimming―or to spot a deer that became a sprinting girl in the blink of an eye. Every autumn, a portion of the harvest apples was left out for the cruel and capricious Alderking. Flower garlands were threaded for him every spring. Townsfolk knew the fear the monster coiled in the heart of the forest, who lured tourists with a cry that sounded like a woman weeping. Its fingers were sticks, its hair moss. It fed on sorrow and sowed corruption. You could lure it out with a singsong chant, the kind girls dare one another to say at birthday sleepovers. Plus there was a hawthorn tree in a ring of stones where you could bargain for your heart's desire by tying a strip of your clothing to the branches under a full moon and waiting for one of the Folk to come. The year before, Jenny Eichmann had gone out there and wished herself into Princeton, promising to pay anything the faeries wanted. She'd gotten in, too, but her mother had a stroke and died the same day the letter came.


If The Cruel Prince didn't exist, I'd say I couldn't ask for anything more.
But Jude and Cardan do exist, so that's clearly not true.
But dear god, this book.
Reading Holly Black's words is like being puckishly pricked by a crush of will-o'-the-wisps.
It tickles and it nips, and it tugs at you like a hazy, crepuscular memory you knew even adulthood's callous claws couldn't snatch from you.
It's dangerous, and seductive, and it gobbles you whole.
And you'll love every eternal, bone-crunching second.


Once, there was a girl who found a sword in the woods.
Once, there was a girl who made a bargain with the Folk.
Once, there was a girl who vowed she would save everyone in the world, but forgot herself.
Once, there was a girl. . .


Fan art:
rosiethorns88

Ashley Cassaday


Sidenote: My brain has officially decided that the soundtrack to any and all fairy revels (especially the filthy ones; see: Feyre, Rhysand, and a throne) is this:

The content may be wrong but the feel is damn near perfect.
I could totally see Jude and Cardan hate-dancing to this.
And by hate-dancing I mean spiteful vertical dry humping.
Just so we're clear.

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ARGH:


Click the ARGH and witness, in video form, Ilona of House Andrews endure a classic writer's meltdown.
...
It's beautiful.
And so fucking familiar.
...
I love my authors.

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Charlie has developed a habit:

You see all this stuff adorning his perfect little nose?

Yeah, that's the catnip he's been huffing lines of on my sister's desk at night.
And that dazed expression he's sporting?
That's the result of said huffing.
The best part, though?
He's been sticking his entire tongue into the tube of feline mellow-makers and swallowing as much as he can before my other sister has to snatch it away so he doesn't deep throat the entire thing.
...
I love this animal.

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 I Want It That Way:


What even was my life before this?

Downloaded so fast.
So.
Fucking.
Fast.

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Thea Harrison's, Dragon Bound:

There was a moment whilst reading this book where my suspicion regarding the heroine's supernatural origins was revealed and I whisper-shouted to an empty room at 3am:
...
And all my adolescent (and adult, let's be real here) Fantasy dreams were finally vindicated.
Because it's so silly.
And so wonderful.
And it made me so. fucking. happy.
And I'm still smiling like an eight year old dork with a myriad of supernatural creatures hand-painted on her bedroom walls (hand-painted by my kickass, fantasy-loving mum, may I add), daydreaming about vicious fairies and graceless dragons.
Okay, I never actually stopped being that eight year old dork, hence the amount of happy radiating from my idiot face right now.
What I'm trying to say is:

Thea Harrison?
You're one cool chick.
I LIKE YOU A LOT.
And thank you for my new ship.
They bicker so beautifully, I almost didn't need any of the actual story.
Pia and Dragos waging war with each other in the form of verbal lashings and it devolving into angry make-up sex was more than enough to keep me satisfied.
I could read a whole book of it, in fact.
I mean, she almost dies and he calls her a, and I quote, little shit.
...
To most sane people that would seem weird and unkind.
But to me?
That's my goddamn catnip, right there.
Call me names and I'll know you love me.
And that's the whole dynamic between Pia and Dragos.
(With some added soft; their special brand of soft)
...
CAT
GODDAMN
NIP!

Also, there's forced cuddle-sleeping.


 As she was rising off her knees, he hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her down on top of him. It wasn't hard. She was off balance to begin with and wobbly with fatigue. She oophed and tried to push off him, but he wrapped his arms around her and trapped her in place.
"Lie Down," he ordered. "I'll make sure we leave on time. Go to sleep."
She collapsed on him like a house of cards. He pulled her head into a comfortable spot on his uninjured shoulder. "Quit giving me orders," she yawned. Under the guise of shifting to get comfortable, she rubbed her cheek against his chest, wallowing in the sensation of warm, powerful male. It seeped into the cold cracks that ran deep inside her. "You're not the boss of me."
"Sleep," he told her.
Just like that, from one moment to the next, she was asleep. No one was around to witness when he experimented with his lips against her forehead.
He decided he liked that too.
...
So... I'm a dead person.
A corpse is spewing this gross, fangirly bullshit at you.
But a very happy gross, fangirly corpse.
...
Ugh, I'm the worst but fuck if I give a damn.

I might be cackling.

It's huge!

 No, I'm definitely cackling.

.............................................

Sara Kipin continuing to ruin my life:

Currently using this as my desktop image:

It's so classic Disney backgrounds it hurts.
.............................................

This adorable Jane Austen meltdown that I AGREE WITH ON ALL COUNTS:

Best story.
Best adaptation.
BEST Darcy.

The number of times I've watched this movie borders on the obscene.
The wondrous, wondrous obscene...
(Have I watched this since writing this? No...)

Also, it's nice to know I'm not the only one hopelessly obsessed with the painterly cinematography in this perfect fucking movie:
Look at this bullshit.
LOOK AT IT.
Roman Osin, you're a gift.

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Organic:

I'm cackling again because Cassandra Calin is a straight from the jar, chocolate spread-eating goddess.

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Saira Vargas:


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I keep falling in love with illustrators.
It's becoming a problem.
But I can't help myself when they rock up, flaunting their wares at me.
Wares I've never seen anyone else illustrate before.
Things I fucking love and wish people would illustrate more.
And for them to be this fucking good!


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A post shared by saira vargas 🕶 (@sairasays) on
Who illustrates Wuthering Heights like this?
WHO?!
(This is a happy who, a fucking ecstatic who, I promise)
I can't even begin to explain how giddy it makes me that Vargas took Heathcliff's wolfishness literally.


He's not a rough diamond – a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic; he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man.
So happy.
So goddamn happy.


You have no earthly idea how much love I have for The Tenth Kingdom.
No idea!
It's terrible and ugly and funnily unfunny and I love it.
And I have come across not one single piece of fan art for it.
Not one!
Until now.
Until, Saira Vargas.
...

Also, if you take a look at her Instagram stories section, Film Talk, you'll bear witness to her also being inside my brain.
Legitimately inside my brain.
I agree with everything she says.
No disagreements, here.
I kept expecting a differing opinion to rise up and smack me in the love-addled face but nope.
Just a continuing stream of weird agreeable fuckery.
...

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Penny Parker breaks my brain:

I've never played Animal Crossing.
I didn't know they made this noise.
...
I have been annihilated.

Long live the I Hate Ross Geller Club.
Our banner is a Capuchin monkey flipping the bird at a Palaeontologist.
We talk misogyny on Thursdays.

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KyaraBat's goth summer survival tips:

I'm not even surprised over how much I needed a goth bat in my life.
Not even a tiny bit.

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This tweet:

...like a feral dog.

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Karl James Mountford:

It bums me out so hard that I'm only hearing about this being a limited run of prints, now.
Eighteen weeks later.
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