january

February 01, 2020


Things I enjoyed in the month of January:

Holly Black's, The Queen of Nothing:

"Tell me what I must slay, what I must steal, tell me the riddle I must solve or the hag I must trick. Only tell me the way, and I will do it, no matter the danger, no matter the hardship, no matter the cost."


Hmm.

I don't know how I feel.
I finished this days ago.
I still feel messy.
And I don't know why.
But squatting unhappily amongst the bedlam of feelings is deep, overwhelming apathy.
...
Apathy.
Not a word I would have ever related to Holly Black's land of the Fae.
Exhilarated?
Appalled?
Creeped the fuck out?
Confusingly moony-eyed?
Yes, yes, yes and oh. boy. yes.
But apathetic?
Apathetic?!
What the actual fairy fuck?
It's not even as if the book's bad, it's just a little clunky in structure, a little predictable and so short.
So, so short.
I've always thought The Folk of Air books were way too slim; not lacking in content but the explorations of the world building, creature lore and character development could've provided a wealth of fascinating and lengthy storytelling.
We're in Faerie for Mab's sake, give me all the dirty deals, mortal sacrifices and bacchanalias aplenty or banish me back to the mortal realm and be done with it.
Don't tease me.
Make me suffer, as every mortal should in the shadow of the Fae.
Make me just as bloodthirsty as my oppressors.
Make me fucking bleed for it.
The first book in the trilogy is called The Cruel Prince, for fuck's sake.
Hard emphasis on the Cruel.
The prince in question is an abominable little shit. He'll just as soon poison you for fun as he will seduce you until you're merely a husk for the Fae's fucked up entertainment.
Cardan Greenbriar is the godsdamned fucking worst and it's why I love him so dearly.
He's unapologetically Fae.
He bows to no one.
He'll love you until you perish from it.
He's. not. a. good. guy.
For two books, this was the Cardan I knew and loved, but in the final instalment my prick of a prince seems to have gone soft.
I love soft.
I'll go to war for soft.
And I really love soft Cardan.
But I love his viciousness more.
I need him to revel in his barbaric nature so he can torture the girl he loves for the sheer unearthly pleasure of it.
I need him to trick mortals into dancing 'til they die.
I need him to be the gloriously mean-spirited, pernicious fairy prince that he so beautifully is and make absolutely no apologies for it.
Because it's necessary.
Because it's required.
But I do also need his softness.
Otherwise how could I root for him and my cantankerous queen, Jude Duarte.
How could I believe it if they simply punished each other?
The enemies to lovers trope is by far one of my favourites but personally? I need a little love to counteract the hate.
But I need it to be cohesive.
The double-edge of a fairy deal, if you will.
And it wasn't there.
There was only soft.
Glorious, wondrous, idiot-making soft.
And it left me happy but empty.
If only Holly Black had been able to fuse these two sides of one of the best Fae characters I've ever had the pleasure to read.
His and Jude's first kiss is indulged with blade and bondage for gods' sake.
They should have been slicing each other to pieces with love and loathing in the final instalment.
They should have been monsters.
And it breaks my fucking heart that they weren't.
...
This feels like a bad review.
I guess it is.
I don't mean it to be.
Because I'm not unhappy.
My ship is sailing.


"I missed you," I whisper against his skin and feel dizzy with the intimacy of the admission, feel more naked than when he could see every inch of me. "In the mortal world, when I thought you were my enemy, I still missed you."
"My sweet nemesis, how glad I am that you returned."

Their battle has been won - for now; more stories, Black? Please?


Cardan looks at his reflection in the door of the microwave and adjusts his [paper] crown so it's at an angle.
I roll my eyes, and he gives me a quick grin. And my heart hurts a little because we are all together and safe, and it wasn't something I'd known to want. And Cardan looks a little shy in the face of all this happiness, as unused to it as I am. There will be struggles to come, I am certain, but right now I am equally sure we will find our way through them.
Vivi opens pizza boxes and uncorks a bottle of wine. Oak takes out a slice of the prawn pizza and digs in.
I raise a plastic glass. "To family."
"And Faerieland," says Taryn, raising hers.
"And pizza," says Oak.
"And stories," says Heather.
"And new beginnings," says Vivi.
Cardan smiles, his gaze on me. "And scheming great schemes."
To family and Faerieland and pizza and stories and new beginnings and scheming great schemes, I can toast to that.


My leading lady finally fucked over the fairy oppressors - with style, may I add.


"She is my wife," Cardan says, his voice carrying over the crowd. "The rightful High Queen of Elfhame."

Everything's wil-o'-the-wisps and drug-laced golden apples.


"By you, I am forever undone."


I'm happy.
I am.
But I can't help but be disappointed.
Especially now that it's over.
Oh fuck, it's over.
Ignore everything I said and replace it with a ceaseless, mournful keening.
Which is the sound I'm currently making because the sad is suffocating me.
Again, m'lady Black, more?
Oh gods, let there be more.

Ps. I want this written on my gravestone:


"You should go."
"This is my room," he points out, affronted."And that's my wife."
"So you keep telling everyone," the Bomb says. "But I am going to take out her stitches, and I don't think you want to watch that."
"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Maybe he'd like to hear me scream."
"I would," Cardan says, standing. "And perhaps one day I will."


...


Also, sometimes if you pre-order, you get fun shit like this:

And for once, it wasn't US only.
The rage US only swag induces is legend.
I'm almost certain I've ranted my sister into a coma with my vitriol - or she just wishes - at least a half dozen times.
I'd say send her empathy vibes but apparently when I totally lose my shit it's quite entertaining.
Like a baby squirrel yelling abusive nonsense at an acorn-less tree.
That's me.
And my rage.
Y'welcome.

It's fan art time:
Monolime
(My current desktop)

Coralie Jubénot

Kara Morr

rosiethorns88

Annalise Jensen

Angela De Vito

Caroline De Geeter

Feel like I may have posted a couple of these already, but I've got so much fan art saved, I'm losing track...


Bonus:

 These photos by Natalia Drepina are giving me serious The Folk of Air feels:

Something I love the most about Holly Black's fae are that they aren't all beautiful.
Some are downright horrific.
Outside and inside.
And in my head, they'd look a lot like this.

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Kerilynn Wilson:


#childhoodweek day 6 “Mist-erious” I have so many happy memories of riding our bikes to the park as a kid and for a while we would pretend our bikes were horses (as you do). I also remember the really looong drives to music lessons and to pass the time I would imagine a really cool horse running along side our car. This is a combination of those two memories ☺️ ps one more day! #childhood3dtotal #childhoodmemories #childhoodweek2019 #childhoodnostalgia #imagination #imaginationart #childrensbooks #childrensbookillustration #kidlitart #kidlitillustration #kidlitartists #illustrationartists #illustrationoftheday #illustrationofinstagram #illustrationdaily #illustration_best #procreate #procreateart #procreatedrawing #horsedrawing #fantasyart #storytellingart @childhoodweekevent @beatrice.blue @3dtotal
A post shared by Kerilynn Wilson (@kerilynnwilson) on

Ughhhhh, this colour palette is destroying me.
Even when it's reversed:

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Bookstand:

A Christmas present from the rentals.
It makes me so dorkily happy.
And now I don't have to keep my books open with my knee/elbow/any available weighty object that'll slide off perpetually just to drive me absolutely crazy while I copy quotes for my curse-happy, all-the-feels-and-then-some reviews.
...

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Yes, please do.

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Adam Ellis:

*nods emphatically but carefully because... ow*

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Destination Wedding:

They're so grumpy and it's adorable and I can't take it...

Everyone seems to be hating on this.
...
Idiots.
This is an hour and a half of Keanu and Winona (forever lovingly referred to as Winony in my head) being bitter, verbose, hate-flirty jerks, rightfully hating on destination weddings.
I call that perfection, I don't know what's wrong with the rest of you.

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Problematic? Sure.
But. so. much. fucking. fun.

When I first saw the makeup tests of Henry Cavill as Geralt, I damn near laughed myself hoarse.
Uhhh... hello, alternative history, gender-swap Barbie, not so pleased to meet ya.
Needless to say, Cavill was not my Geralt of Rivia.
Not even close.
But I knew I'd watch it anyway.
'Cause I'm trash.

But something wondrous happened.
(Something that keeps happening with adaptations actually; maybe I need to stop being such a judgemental, mardy bitch about my stories... nah)
I fell in stupid, idiotic, puke-worthy love.
Because this show was goddamn immense!
Violent?
Gory?
Funny?
Full of terrifying, powerful women and grumptacular, mallowy men?
Fantastical beyond my wildest supernatural-loving dreams?
Fight scenes to swoon over?
Bit of romance?
Bit of hate-fucking?
Lots of pleasing nonsense?

All of this.
ALL OF IT.
This is show is like catnip.
Plus... damn, Cavill.
(The grumpy, grimy Legolas look is just delightful)

And damn, Chalotra.
(Perpetually pissed off, capable, gooey inside heroines are my lifeblood)

It's so nice when I get to crush on the lead characters in equal measure.
And when they have chemistry hot enough to even outdo my love, Yennefer.

And then there's Jaskier:

And this fight scene:
(Seriously some of the best fight choreography I've seen in years)

And this fucking song:
(Which once you hear it, will not leave you. Ev-er)

Oh, and Geralt's sword:
(What has been seen, cannot be unseen)

It's just... it's just so goooood.
And it's getting a second season.
And I'm deliriously happy.
It's very confusing.
Sooooo... here's some fan art, while I figure my shit out, and rewatch this show fifty zillion times until I'm sated:
Stephanie Pepper

Diana Novich

Ksenia Svinkova aka irenhorrors

Mary Buhl

Zheng Qu

(This one's sitting in my room. It was necessary)

Giada Carboni

Bastien Lecouffe Deharme

Nina aka. waxanie

Nicole Collins aka. Ohms and Wattson Art

Sceith_A

Kelsey Wroten

Victoria aka. Orientalld

PINCHAS

Kathy aka. anaeolist

Luissa Preissler
(The artist behind the illustrations for Subterranean Press' special edition of Ilona Andrews', Small Magics ...Which I may have bought ... And still have wrapped in its plastic casing to protect it from my drool... *shrug*)

kilgaaarra

marxandria

Ivan Semirozum
(Unfortunately, I can't find any info for Semirozum. Help a girl out, if you have any)

Borg Sinaban

Craig Bruyn

Charlotte aka. ChirpyCharlotte

AnnaTheNewt

Shay

Ivelisse Housman
(99!)

anni
(Also 99!)

frefrnky

Claudia Caranfa aka. Kittrose


Also, five very important videos:

Fair warning, this one will spoil you for a key moment in the show, proceed at your own peril:
(I saw a clip of this before I mainlined the show and I cannot express to you how deeply disappointed I was that it wasn't scored this way. It was still awesome. But... It's Britney, bitch)


I love this growly idiot.

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I finish:

I know, I know, enough with the House Andrews of it all but come on?
They're adorable!

Need more proof?
Look-see here:

...
I'm swooning.
I'm goddamn swooning!

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Varguy:


A post shared by Varguy (@varguyart) on

Sweet Jesus, those Ghibli-inspired splish splashes are the worst.
The absolute worst.
The audacity of those little faces.

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Emma Hamm's, Heart of the Fae:

Initially, I thought this was going to be the answer to all my Sarah J. Maas woes.
The A Court of Thorns and Roses series is without question my one true Fae love, and I miss it.
I miss it so much it's making me a little... maniacal.
And there's no word from m'lady Maas herself on when the next in the series is due to appear.
...
And it's killing me.
Full on, about to lose my shit from withdrawal, killing me.
So much so that I'm sorely tempted to reread the series - yet again - to get that good old Illyrian wingspan fix I so desperately require to keep me some semblance of sane.
But I get weird about re-reading.
There's so much to read and so little bloody time to do it, that... yeah, I don't tend to do it much.
(Is this my bookish version of FOMO? ... Yuck, I said FOMO ... But is it?)
Unless I'm desperate.
Which I am.
I so am.
Fuck it, gird your loins, back to Faerietown I go.

But.
In the meantime, even with the imminent reread, I'm doing my very best to get my greedy paws on anything about the Fae.
And Emma Hamm's, Heart of the Fae has been on my TBR list for a couple of years now.
A Beauty and the Beast retelling with a Fae twist, feisty heroine and broody alpha-mallow hero?
Oh, hello my literary iron arrow, here's my heart, go on and fell me, get stuck right in, make the anime gods of arterial spray proud.
Truly.
Go on.
Obliterate me.

If you've read the ACoTaR series, you'll know the plot I just described is essentially the storyline of the first book.
So, why would I want to read the exact same story?
I wouldn't.
And I didn't.
Hamm and Maas may share the same basic plot but their stories differ almost entirely.
Which is why here endeth the comparisons, because I want to enjoy Hamm's version of the Fae solely for its own take on the Beauty and the Beast tale.
Which was interesting.
But not groundbreaking.
It did not blow my mind.
I wasn't reduced to a snivelling mess with finger cramp from clutching my chest in literary agony.
But I had a nice time.
The heroine, Sorcha, was all the things I enjoy in a heroine: headstrong, smart, capable, vulnerable, loyal, smart-mouthed, loving, knows who to stick with the pointy end.
A heroine to root for.
But maybe a little over excitable.
A pet hate of mine when reading, happy as a clam, is suddenly feeling as though my characters are shouting at me for no good reason.
I love a good rage-filled screaming match but only when it's appropriate. Not for no apparent reason, other than the author not knowing about the angry whisper.
(The angry whisper is very effective, I enjoy it immensely. I'd take it over shouting bland sentences any day, which to me is essentially the written equivalent of singing dialogue in musicals ... yuck, don't do this, Les Misérables, you're fucking the worst. Westside Story? You can fuck off too)
And this I attribute to the overuse of the exclamation mark.
Easily done.
It's a tempting little monster.
But please, for the love of my brain's metaphorical eardrums, ease off a bit, yeah?
Your characters can be furious without abusing punctuation.
Trust me.

However, grammatical heresy aside, Sorcha's a fun, warm, sincerely good heroine.
Her kindness should be cloying and unbelievable but the way Hamm writes her makes it ring true.
I fully believe Sorcha sees the best in people.
I absolutely believe her natural instinct to care and protect anyone/thing who needs it.


Light filtered through the cracked door. She stooped and peered through the broken wood. An empty room stood beyond. White sheets covered the furniture and cobwebs stretched from ceiling to floor.
Sorcha stuck a foot out and nudged the door open. Its groan echoed through the room and bounced up the grand staircase leading to the second story. A cobweb drifted on the air where she had torn it from its place on the door.
"This is the castle of Hy-brasil," she whispered. Sorcha reached up and caught the cobweb, transferring it and the spider to the wall. "Sorry."


I unquestionably believe she could see the beauty behind her beast.
And this actually surprised me.
I'm not usually drawn to characters like this, not without them cursing like a sailor, punching people out (usually for good reason), and generally being a cranky bitchmonster of death.
(She's cutest. Fight me)

That's my usual type.
The violent softie.
Sorcha isn't that.
She's just... so... good.
And I liked it.
I liked it a whole bunch.
Which was weird but hey, maybe I'm evolving.
...

I still love my violent softies, Sorcha's just a welcome anomaly.
And you never know, she might go postal on some shit-biscuit goblin in the next book.
...
No, actually, she probably won't, not with this kind of behaviour:


"Boggart stop screaming."
She didn't listen to Sorcha. Instead, Boggart screamed even louder. Its high-pitched whine dug at Sorcha's ears, a headache blooming inside her skull.
"Please stop knocking!" She shouted. "I'm coming! I just need to take care of this before I—"
The knocking stopped.
Sorcha let out a relieved sigh. She'd taken care of the deep bass, now she had to make Boggart be quiet.
Leaving the flour for later, she charged towards the panicking Fae. Sorcha knew how to calm children down, in fact, it was one of her better talents. Boggart couldn't be any different from that. She was the same size as one.
Sorcha slid her hands underneath the faerie's armpits and picked her up. Like a child, Boggart wrapped her legs around Sorcha's waist immediately. Panting breaths brushed against her ear, but at least Boggart stopped screaming.
"Shh," Sorcha whispered as she rocked back and forth. "It's all right. Everything is fine, you can stop screaming now, little love."
Although her fur appeared wiry, Boggart was as soft as a rabbit all over her body. Unlike Cian, Boggart wasn't wearing any clothing. One of her feet moved restlessly against Sorcha's stomach.
She only had three toes, Sorcha realized with delight. Three thick, bulbous toes that ended in blunt little black nails.
The pounding started up again. Boggart squeaked and nestled her pointed noise in Sorcha's neck.
"Shh, it's alright," Sorcha repeated as she walked them towards the door. "Nothing is going to happen to you."
Soft girl.
My soft, soft girl.
No murder for her.
I won't allow it.
But more angry flirting with her beast, yes and please and thank you?
Why does this trope make me so happy?
Why does watching two bicker-happy idiots fall in love make my dolt of a heart swell to six times its original size?
Anyone know?
No?
Oh well, I don't really care, if my heart's happy, I'm happy.
And Sorcha and Eamonn make my heart do the Jitterbug - legitimately the only happy dance I can think of - especially when they're angry foreplaying.
It's delightful.
I demand more.
Because goddammit, I did not realise this was a duology and Hamm hit me with a mother of a cliffhanger.
It's not all bad, though.
I've discovered what kind of Fae I'd be, if such a thing was possible:


The faeries were kind, but almost too kind. She didn't remember the stories about brownies, but fully intended to put Boggart to good use. Plying someone with bread for information was easy enough though perhaps devious.


Bread as an interrogation tactic?
Yup.
I'm a Boggart.

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Sometimes it's painfully apparent I follow creatives... :

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Jazmine Gubbe:

This last one gives me all the Brave feels.

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Jane Eyre:

Book adaptations.
Give me strength, they make me crotchety.
Especially when they're books I love.
And I love Jane Eyre.
Which is why I've meant to watch this BBC mini-series for years but never bothered my arse to actually do it because... what if it sucked?
Which is the eternal quandary I find myself in with my two loves: books and tv.
So, how did I end up watching this?
The universe did it.
Or more specifically, the Drama channel did it.
For some unknown reason, when it's Christmas/New Year in the UK, as a nation we gorge ourselves on period dramas.

It's fucking delightful.
This year I managed to fit in the BBC's, Sense & Sensibility - my favourite version.
Their Tom Hardy adap of Wuthering Heights - not so great, to be honest; the Ralph Fiennes one is probably still my favourite and it's a bit shit, if we're continuing this honesty thing.
The Gwyneth Paltrow, Emma - urgh. Clueless or the Beeb's Romola Garai version, thank you very much. Super intrigued by the new adaptation, though.
Becoming Jane - which actually isn't ageing very well... still like it, though... 'cause I'm trash.
Oliver! - I've seen this so many fucking times and that goddamn Who will buy? number still makes me want to commit musical medley murder but... it's my Dad's favourite, and he was super sick over Christmas, so I relented ← that shit gets you into Valhalla, right?

I feel like there was another one but I can't remember.
Either way, that's what a UK tv Christmas pretty much looks like.
And Jane Eyre wasn't half bad.
Ruth Wilson was understatedly tempestuous, just as Jane should be.
Rochester was far too fucking handsome, as per bloody usual. It's not that I mind ogling Toby Stephens in period costume for four feature length episodes but someone, for the love of Brontë, give me the fugly Rochester I deserve!
The pacing was incredible - I truly think this book should only be adapted for television.
It looked right; grainy, wild and miserable.
And it was just... good. I liked it. Will watch again. 10/10.
Plus, this time last New Year's, I was passing out intermittently while "watching" the movie adaptation just after puking my guts up for two days straight.
An improvement, yes?

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Sticker anxiety:

...

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Len Nguyen:

Prettttty.
It's just so prettttty.
...
Christmas robbed me all my mental spoons, I apologise, this is about as much cognitive thought you're going to get from me this month.
Consider me Calcifer running low on eggshells.
Running real fucking low.

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I am tentatively really excited about this.
Harley was the only good thing in Suicide Squad, even if they totally underused her.
Generally DC movies suck, bar Wonder Woman, which I really, really liked; Gal Gadot's delightful.
Please let this be the femme-heavy DC movie I've been dreaming of.
Please, oh, please.

Either way, I'm still getting this little be-tinseled shit-princess:

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Mary Buhl's, Atlas the Cactus series:

His little legs and drama plant vibes.
I can barely stand it.

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ummmmandy's Picrew Girl Maker:

This was fun
I don't actually look this good.
But the exhausted curmudgeon face?

Go here to make your own.

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Split:

Finally, finally saw this and... yeah, it was cool.
I liked it a lot.
McAvoy's always been a convincing psycho.
Two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
Would recommend.
Will absolutely watch the next movie.
...
I told you...
MENTAL.
SPOONS.

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HSP (Hyper Sensitive Person):


Really debated on whether to post this or not because it’s so personal. . . I have terrible Anxiety. My whole life I’ve struggled with it, even as a child. It doesn’t come in waves, or during stressful events- it is every single day. The only way I can describe it is this- loud. Every waking moment, my mind is screaming at me. Every sleeping moment, I have anxious nightmares. I struggle with PTSD as well, without really knowing or understanding what triggers it. Panic could ensue at any moment. . . I’ve tried to keep some of the symptoms at bay. But the anxiety is ever present, running my life. . I do want to thank every single one of you for always being so kind and supportive. You really have no idea how much it lifts my spirits to see your comments, messages, adorations. And thank you to those of you who are going through the same thing and telling people about it. We aren’t alone in our fight against our own brains! . . . Keep on being awesome, friends. . . . #drawing #animation #sketch #anxiety #anxious #artwork #procreate #digitalart #artistsupportingartist #artistsupport #drawdaily #draweverydamnday #sketching #girlsinanimation #girlswhodraw #supportartists
A post shared by Bre Gotham (@bre.gotham.art) on

This animation by Bre Gotham is the closest thing I've found visually to describe how I've felt for the past year.
Or, should I say, increasingly for the past year.
Being around lots of people has always been a struggle.
Oversensitivity to taste, sound and smell is something I've experienced for as long as I can remember.
I'm more a listener than a talker; I talk when it feels necessary and worthwhile and beneficial to my brain.
That all suggests a shy, sensitive, introverted human, right?
Which I am.
But this is something a little more.
Something that kicks my fight or flight instincts right in the ass.
It's HSP.
I'm a Hyper Sensitive Person.
Which means that at this point in time - it ebbs and flows - just sitting with a few people can make me extremely anxious.
It's a noise thing.
For most people it'll seem like a normal level.
For me it sounds cacophonous.
Like an orchestra warming up.
Like Bree Gotham's animation.
It's chaotic and loud and inescapable, and it makes me panic and retreat into myself.
Which on the outside looks like an in-mild-pain human covering their ears and looking anywhere but at the people they're with.
If I had headphones I'd put them on.
Just to stop the din.
(This is where being supernatural would come in real handy. I'd just magic everyone quiet until I could process again ... I may not be a benevolent supernatural, probably best I'm plain old human).
Which sucks.
I like having conversations.
I like people.
But my brain just cannot cope.
And it has no pattern.
None whatsoever.
Some days I'll be perfectly fine, or have maybe a minor incident.
Other days I'll be stuck in sensory overload and it won't abate until I'm alone, usually in the dark, reading.
I love reading in the dark.
I do not love it being used as a coping mechanism.
I'm not alone, though.
15-20% of the world has this disorder, it's just not widely recognised.
I didn't even know about it until my symptoms started to become a problem and I needed to find an answer.
As I said, I've experienced varying degrees of HSP since infancy, I just thought they were manageable quirks.
Which was fine until they weren't manageable anymore and my sister started noticing the ear clutching and sudden withdrawals.
She's usually the one who steers me somewhere quieter because it's oddly difficult to get myself moving.
But I think that's probably because a trait of people with HSP is overstimulation.
HSPs tend to be more observant and process their surroundings more intensely than others, I definitely do, so when it's hitting me hard, moving somewhere safe doesn't take priority. It should. But it doesn't. Because I'm just so damn overwhelmed.
It's a weird fucking disorder and really exhausting but knowing what it is and learning how to handle it makes it easier.
And seeing animations that visualise how you feel, like Bree Gotham's, is... I can't even begin to explain how comforting that is.
Art is one of the greatest lifelines I've ever experienced.

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_Sae0000

Some colour palettes, y'know?

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E N T R Y . 0 0 1 ❉ Dear Diary, I feel like I should name you. Perhaps the reader (you—yes, you! ♥) could help us out there. What should the diary’s name be? Comment below your ideas and thoughts m. ♥ Now, back to the entry. Since it’s my first one, I’ll keep it short and sweet. I burned more drawings and it felt liberating, though I did burn my thumb just ever so slightly haha. Was it worth it? Oh yes. And I hope the Ravens of Patreon will enjoy their drawings, each one unique. Perhaps I’ll do full pieces like this? It seems all the more terrifying to burn a piece I spent hours and hours on, but isn’t the point to face my fears? Yes. And face them I shall. We’ll talk later, Diary. Love and light, Nadia. . Hey everyone, I hope you will like my new format of posting! I’ll be making my social media a diary of sorts to help me feel comfortable exploring. I also think this will be a healthy way to not see my account as a way to measure my own success as one human being, and therefore leave behind the self-esteem issues that have arisen. Don’t forget to comment below what you think the Diary’s name should be! Hope you all have a beautiful day and thanks for reading this far. ♥ . . #artdiary #burntpaper #burnedpaper #vintagetheme #inksketches #inkdrawings #patreoncreator . . Disclaimer: Fire is dangerous. Please be responsible using fire if you attempt to burn your drawings. Only burn things if you are legally an adult or have adult supervision. I am not responsible for any damages, nor am I encouraging anyone to try this themselves.
A post shared by Nadia Rausa (김나디) // Artist (@nadiarausa) on

Those burnt edges are making the timid pyromaniac in me very happy.

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This sick Oscars burn Bong Joon-Ho:

They're very local.

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

The Money Pit:

The rewatch count on this is absurd.
It's my favourite Tom Hanks movie.
Well, it's my favourite young Tom Hanks movie.
Because to me, there's four Hankses:

1. Farcical, makes me laugh without even moving his face, Hanks
(The Money Pit, Big, Splash, The 'Burbs)

2. Whimsical, romantic Hanks
(You've Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, The Terminal)

3. Grumpy, not the main attraction but totally steals the show, Hanks
(A League of Their Own, Catch Me If You Can, That Thing You Do!)

4. Ac-tor Hanks
(Road to Perdition, Cast Away, Philadelphia, The Green Mile)

And then there's the punching me in the heart with just his voice Hanks, but that's a whole different ballgame.
It's in a... league of its own.
...

Moving on...
The Money Pit fits into the first category of Mr Hanks' work and it's my absolute favourite.
Hands down.
I'll watch it whenever, wherever and it'll kill me every time.
I don't actually think there's another human alive who can make falling down look so fucking funny and so damn effortless at the same time.
Maybe Bill Murray.
Perhaps Ryan Reynolds.
Possibly Paul Rudd.
I don't know.
But Tom Hanks can.
It's why I love him.
He is the 80s.

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Eva Vilhelmiina Eskelinen:

Making all my High Fantasy visual dreams come true.
There's so much atmosphere in these.
They feel charged.
And I want to go to there.
In an impenetrable bubble so I don't die, of course.
Because I would die in High Fantasy.
I would die immediately.

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Harlots season 1:

Thought I was getting a bawdy comedy romp à la Plunkett & Macleane.
Instead I got a cicatricial commentary on the subjugation of women, of all classes, in Georgian England.
And I'm not unhappy about it.
I'm actually kind of giddy.
Bring on season two and with it bring more sex, more violence, more kicks in the balls, and for the love of god, more strong as fuck women.

On a more shallow note: the costumessss, oh the costumessss.

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Matt Wallace's, Lustlocked:

And standing tall on the cake's summit, stripped to the tank top she wears beneath her smock and that smock now tied around her waist like flour-stained armor, is Nikki. She has bound her elaborately rolled hair in a classic car-emblazoned bandana. In each hand she holds a piping bag bulging with Boosha's "temporary" lust-monster cure. There are half a dozen cooking syringes sheathed through her belt like daggers. The diamond archway topping the cake frames her, and its light dances over the weeping angel tattoo covering most of her right arm and shoulder, making it look like angelic war paint.
She is no less than a confection-armed Valkyrie.


Some things feel like they were made just for you.
Buffy feels like it was made just for me.
Bread feels like it was created solely for my enjoyment.
Adidas Gazelle OGs are my very own glass slipper.
The Sin du Jour series gives me the exact same feeling.
As though Matt Wallace, through some bizarre twist of fate, heard I was born and wrote me my very own fairytale.
A series of fairytales.
A compendium of funny, weird and violent stories just for me.
To keep and treasure and endure constant hunger pangs, because their ingredients may be suspect but I might be able to could totally repress that knowledge to get some of Sin du Jour's stomach-growl inducing food down my bread-loving gullet.


"Well then, Nikki," the king interjects. "Do tell us about cake."
"Oh. Of course. First, for the . . . groom's side of the aisle, what I've done is created a ruby jam center. The frosting is silky pearl, both white and black, which we've blended. And it's sprinkled with blue diamond chips."
Lena can't believe the description.
Ruby jam?
Frosting made from pearls?
"How the hell—" she begins, catching herself quickly.
No one seems to notice.
Everyone except Bianca takes up a fork. Soon an inhuman crunching of jaws fills the room.
"That is utterly magnificent," the king says without hesitation.
The queen and prince are quick to agree.
Nikki's smile spreads with genuine delight.
"Thank you. And for the bride's side, we have blood orange cake with a frosting of vanilla bean ganache. The sprinkles are crushed hard candy made from sea salt, taro, and blue agave."
"Jesus, they look identical," Lena can't help whispering.
Fortunately only Darren and Dorsky hear her.
Darren nudges her.
Dorsky smirks without looking past him at Lena.
Nikki picks up a fork and offers it to Bianca, who has been standing to one side trying not to look uncomfortable.
The young woman steps forward, seeming to appreciate the gesture. She takes the fork and bisects a good-sized bite from the blood orange cake, bringing it to her lips and sniffing it demurely.
"It smells amazing," she says.
Nikki nods enthusiastically. "I know, right?"
Bianca takes her first bite of her wedding cake.
Her first words, to Nikki's mind, are perfect: "Babe," she says, forking another bite for the prince, "you've got to try this. It's amazing."


Sure, the goblin fetish for eating jewels doesn't exactly appeal (unless it was like eating Polo Holes. Remember those? My school banned them because they looked like drugs ... I wish) but blood orange cake with vanilla bean, crunchtacular frosting?
Get.
In.
My.
Belly.

Fuck it.
Now I'm hungry for baked goods.
Reading the first book was no better.
Matt Wallace is obviously the embodiment of the sin of gluttony and he's trying to tempt me into making mug cake.
Mug cake is dangerous.
I refuse to make mug cake.
If I know how, I'll never stop.


I can't be too mad at him, though.
He did write a novella about a royal goblin wedding with lusty, lizardy high-jinx and weird as fuck everything.
I can deal with the hunger pangs when I get storytelling fit for my equally weird as fuck soul.
...
It helps that there's chocolate next to me.
Y'know, for literary-based emergencies.
Like when your author treats you to a story you never knew you needed, ups the sexual tension between your tentative ship, and then proceeds to RIP YOUR GUTS OUT WITH THE MOTHER OF ALL CLIFFHANGERS.
...
Chocolate.
I need chocolate...

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A little Doctor, a little Who, a lot Juanmao:

...

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

UnREAL fourth and final season:

I genuinely didn't think this show could get any more fucked up.
I was beyond wrong.
...
I'm going to miss my crazy bitches so much.

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Marinetta Surek aka. Loputyn:


A post shared by Loputyn (@loputyn) on

Fuck.
In my head, Angela Carter is looking down on these with approval, thinking, 'Damn, werewolf sex is hot as fuck ... Vindicated!"
But way more eloquent because she be a wordsmith, I be a lowly word-mongrel.
But I like what I like.
And fuck me, I like Marinetta Surek's style.
Especially the first and fourth illustrations.
Gimme, gimme.

Also, this Dylan Dog variant:

...

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Speaking of Dylan Dog, here's the grandmaster (imo), Gigi Cavenago:

Swagger.
Old school, Noir-as-fuck swagger.
That's what Gigi Cavenago's got in supernatural, ball-busting, crime-solving spades.

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Labyrinthine smut:

...
This is where my fan-casting of Matthew Goode as Jareth would come in handy.
That'd be some gloriously pretty goblin filth, right there.
My ovaries...

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Slurp. Pop. Splat:


A post shared by Hannah Hillam (@hannahhillam) on

Hannah Hillam, you make me so damn happy.

 SLURRRP.

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