Would you listen to this bullshit?
...
Goddammit.
And then there's this extra bullshit:
I'm just gonna bask for a minute.
A collaboration between these two composers is the stuff of ethereal, instrumental dreams.
animation
digital art
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illustration
literature
monthlies
movies
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quotes
tv
videos
webcomics
words
april
Things I enjoyed in the month of April:
Peadar Ó Guilín's, The Call:
They pass a swamp where head-sized bubbles rise into the air and pop, each one releasing a cry for help in any one of a dozen languages. They see twisted creatures, former men and women, hunt each other through ankle-high forests; they drink from streams whose waters taste like tears, and indeed each swallow fills them with a few heartbeats of deep sadness.
Well, fuck.
This... this a savage book.
Bloody and barbarous from start to finish, with a Fae concept entirely new to me.
In short?
The human race banished the Sídhe (term for the Fae race, traditionally pronounced SHEE, but in the book the older pronunciation SHEATHE-UH is used) to a bloodthirsty, unsurvivable pocket universe known as The Grey Land - because they could; you know what we're like: bunch of land-claiming dickheads - and now the Sídhe (who really deserve no sympathy; they are vile, the vilest I've come across in fiction so far) sporadically spirit away teenagers to hunt down for three seconds in our world and a whole day in the Sídhe's prison world.
They enjoy their sport.
1 in 10 children survive.
Ireland is cut off from the rest of the world. Imprisoned, themselves, by some reflexive twist of magic when they banished the Sídhe.
The number of children are dwindling.
The ones who come back are mutilated beyond comprehension.
Some alive.
Most not.
The ones they keep are bent and reformed into cattle, entertainment, war mounts; they only know how to suffer and please their new masters.
The Sídhe cannot die; Dagda rules amongst them and his infamous cauldron keeps them immortal.
They want revenge; they'll have have it by any means.
They have no mercy.
They laugh while they kill.
They laugh while they "die".
They've found a doorway back home.
...
This book is fucked up.
And it's YA.
YA!
Praise the literary lords, my blood-soaked teens have finally arrived.
I can barely believe it, because somewhere along the way I lost my love for Young Adult fiction.
It just wasn't doing anything for me anymore.
(Of course there are exceptions: Leigh Bardugo, Rainbow Rowell, Holly Black, Cornelia Funke, Maggie Stiefvater, Laini Taylor, Margaret Rogerson, Hannah Moskowitz)
I couldn't handle the mollycoddled way teenagers were being written.
Everybody was special, chosen, but no one would get their hands dirty.
...
Dirty hands are the best part!
When I was a teenager - in the days of yore, where we lived in pre-Wi-Fi caves and dined on Push Pops and Sunny Delight - like every other pubescent monster, I was willing to do pretty much anything to get my hands on something R-Rated.
If there was violence, sex, booze, murder, mayhem, I had to see it.
The more verboten the better.
I revelled in the knowledge that I was deemed too young to be seeing this "adult" behaviour and I was doing it anyway.
I loved it.
And it didn't fuck me up.
Myriad other things, for sure, but not my first illicit viewing of Scream, or reading my first sex scene, or for that matter, seeing my first sex scene, or drug scene, or douche-bag beatdown.
The Skeksis and Artax drowning caused me more childhood trauma than any of that.
(Shit. Why did I bring up Artax? Here comes the blubbering)
Which is why I cannot understand why YA is so tame. Especially in Fantasy.
The chances of being thrown into a supernatural world and something not doing its level best to kill you is miniscule.
Tiny.
Practically non-existent.
And yet, YA continues to behave like it's a fucking Disney movie and everything's talking rabbits and adorable bestial Stockholm Syndrome.
(A syndrome I would embrace the shit out of because... library. I'd be a total slut for that library ← this sentence now exists immortally on the internet ... what have I done?)
...
I don't like it.
It's insulting to the resilience of children.
I didn't want to be shielded from these things when I was younger; I don't want to be shielded from them now.
Which is why The Call was so damn surprising.
As I said, this is a savage book.
Peadar Ó Guilín doesn't pull his punches.
He's God, the Devil, Zeus, Hades, Hel, judge, jury, executioner.
No one's safe from his literary scythe.
And the carnage is fucking glorious.
In the classroom, the last four seconds tick away. Everybody is standing well back from Cahal's discarded clothing. Liz Sweeney has run to fetch the instructors. Nobody else breathes.
And suddenly, something is there: not a corpse and far too large for a human being. Two metres high, it stands on four legs that end in a parody of a man's toes. Its skin is the pale white of most Irish, but it has stretched so thinly over such a large frame that parts of it lie torn and bleeding.
The head is the worst of all: a tiny brain pan with Cahal's brown hair. The mad little eyes, too, are the same watery blue as those of the vanished boy. They blink, and blink again on either side of jaws wide enough to swallow a basketball. The creature howls. Pain echoes from its throat, along with sorrow, with hatred. And while everybody stands frozen, it grabs the head of Rodney McNair in those mighty jaws and bites down hard.
No page is left unsullied.
No character exempt from abuse.
No one's hands are clean.
And I mean no one.
The Call is not a righteous story.
Just because the protagonist is the chosen one, it doesn't make her good or moral.
She isn't.
Her hunger to survive is just as savage as the Sídhe's lust for revenge, maybe more so, because she has something to lose.
Friends who refuse to be pushed away.
A boy who'd violate his morals for her.
A life.
A fucking life she's been told from birth should have been snuffed out immediately.
Born with Polio in a country cut off from the vaccine, her limbs brand her a lost cause.
If you can't run, you can't survive the hunt.
To that, our heroine declares a resounding, the fuck I can't.
Faster than she should be.
Stronger than anyone gives her credit.
As fierce as you'd expect.
She's glorious.
Nessa is hanging on for her life. It may be a whole hour she's been clinging here, but in the Grey Land who can say? Her arms, her powerful arms, wobble with exhaustion, and her hands are slick with blood, as the teeth slowly grind into them. [...] it's to be acid if she can't hold on, fire if she can. There won't be enough of her left to fill a teacup and everyone will say how they knew she'd never make it, but wasn't it sweet the way she kept trying anyway? Really, very touching.
[...]
As time passes, as every joint in her body feels like it's popping out of its socket, as her feet shred, as the foul air savages her throat, she grins a grin every bit as vicious and joyful as [the Sídhe].
"You'll never last," the hero pleads with her. "Hours remain!"
"Oh, I'll last!" she cries. "I'll last! [...] they were wrong about me. Everybody was, for I will have survived the Grey Land, and Crom take the polio and the doubters! Crom twist you all!"
A bristling goddess worthy of her sanguineous crown.
I enjoyed every vicious second of her.
Every gory, twisted, emotionally wrung out second.
And we're not done.
There's another half to this story.
Where our heroine is truly tested.
By everyone.
...
.............................................
Rachel Xin and The Losers Club:
So, I watched It.
...
Her character design is ridiculous.
I love her.
And yes, there's a high emphasis on the Reddie of it all but it's to be expected.
They're a tiny married couple and I ship it just like everybody else.
So, I watched It.
...
Was I supposed to be scared?
How many times am I expected to watch idiot children venture into creepy houses and not root for them to die of their own stupidity at the hands of a supernatural murder clown?
Truly?
Did nobody pay attention in Professor Randy's class that day?
...
I think I'm officially over this trope.
But it does finally give me a reason to share Rachel Xin's bountiful and beautiful fan art, so there's that:
Her character design is ridiculous.
I love her.
And yes, there's a high emphasis on the Reddie of it all but it's to be expected.
They're a tiny married couple and I ship it just like everybody else.
Look at them!
They're wearing complimentary colours for fuck's sake.
Bonus Legoshi/Haru:
...
.............................................
.............................................
Nick Tofani:
haunting my own house pic.twitter.com/EWOnBLySpa— Nickledoodle Dandy (@OneTrickTofani) April 1, 2020
...
.............................................
.............................................
Pure:
Jesus Christ, this was confronting.
But utterly wonderful.
I'll watch just about any fictionalised account of mental health.
It doesn't even have to address my particular conditions.
I'll want to watch it.
Pure is about OCD.
Specifically, constant intrusive sexual thoughts.
Intrusive thoughts are something I don't experience consistently through the day but I do experience a lot of at specific times every day.
They tend to hit when I'm reading.
(I'm not sure why, perhaps because the visual side of my brain is super charged to create a clear picture of the story I'm processing and the weird thoughts take the opportunity to go technicolour at the same time)
Or when I'm trying to sleep.
(See: this diagram)
And they tend to follow a pattern of catastrophising:
Someone I love will get hurt, sick, etc.
My cat'll go missing, get sick, etc.
I'll not wake up in the morning.
Something under the bed is going to reach out and touch me or worse, drag me under.
(Thus why I never sleep with any limbs uncovered, even in hot weather; some childhood fears never take the bloody hint)
They're pretty dark emotions and my only way of coping is to touch/knock on wood.
Superstitious crap but it keeps me from losing my shit at 3am.
Unlike the lead character in Pure, my thoughts don't tend to go down a sexual route.
Sometimes, particularly if I'm reading a sex scene - my brain's that straight forward - but generally it's your regular doom and gloom mental fuckwad thoughts that hound me.
And it is upsetting, because, again, like Pure's protagonist, I don't want these thoughts.
I don't know where they come from.
I don't know why my brain would even go there.
But it does.
And it feels like being split in two.
Like I'm not in control of my own thoughts, which is something I've struggled with for years due to depression, body dysmorphia, etc.
I'm me, right?
I'm the only voice in my head.
So how the fuck are these seemingly out of character thoughts whiplashing me every night without my consent?
...
Honestly, I don't know.
I really don't.
But I do know it's pretty normal.
Everyone has weird, intrusive thoughts.
From the standard this fan is going really fast, I wonder what will happen if I touch it; I'm going to touch it, to the extreme visualisation of physically hurting someone.
I've had both thoughts and more, and they do unnerve me but not to the devastating extreme they do the lead in Pure.
Different brains, different afflictions, different methods of coping.
OCD is so common.
So, so, so common.
In all levels.
But like every mental health condition, it affects some people more than others.
And it doesn't make you broken or unlovable.
It's just another weird as shit way the brain likes to fuck with us lowly meat-sacks who haul it around all day.
(You think it'd have more respect for its sole mode of transport)
Pure shows this.
And it's awkward, and abrasive, and heartbreaking, and familiar.
I wasn't expecting to be wrung out so badly when I decided to watch this.
I thought it was going to be a lighthearted, humorous look at a side of mental health I'm not intimately acquainted with.
Y'know, the shit Channel 4 is really good at producing.
(Speaking of which, if you don't have Netflix, you can watch Pure on 4's streaming service for free - and lots of other awesome shows like: Crashing, Misfits, My Mad Fat Diary, The Great British Bake Off, The End of the F***ing World, Green Wing, Fresh Meat, Banana, Crazyhead and many, many more)
But it wasn't.
It was another step towards mental health being better understood and excepted.
And it hurt, it really hurt to watch but fuck me, it was worth the sodden pillowcase after my howl-fest.
Spinning away.
Watch Pure and look out for those words, you'll get it.
But utterly wonderful.
I'll watch just about any fictionalised account of mental health.
It doesn't even have to address my particular conditions.
I'll want to watch it.
Pure is about OCD.
Specifically, constant intrusive sexual thoughts.
Intrusive thoughts are something I don't experience consistently through the day but I do experience a lot of at specific times every day.
They tend to hit when I'm reading.
(I'm not sure why, perhaps because the visual side of my brain is super charged to create a clear picture of the story I'm processing and the weird thoughts take the opportunity to go technicolour at the same time)
Or when I'm trying to sleep.
(See: this diagram)
And they tend to follow a pattern of catastrophising:
Someone I love will get hurt, sick, etc.
My cat'll go missing, get sick, etc.
I'll not wake up in the morning.
Something under the bed is going to reach out and touch me or worse, drag me under.
(Thus why I never sleep with any limbs uncovered, even in hot weather; some childhood fears never take the bloody hint)
They're pretty dark emotions and my only way of coping is to touch/knock on wood.
Superstitious crap but it keeps me from losing my shit at 3am.
Unlike the lead character in Pure, my thoughts don't tend to go down a sexual route.
Sometimes, particularly if I'm reading a sex scene - my brain's that straight forward - but generally it's your regular doom and gloom mental fuckwad thoughts that hound me.
And it is upsetting, because, again, like Pure's protagonist, I don't want these thoughts.
I don't know where they come from.
I don't know why my brain would even go there.
But it does.
And it feels like being split in two.
Like I'm not in control of my own thoughts, which is something I've struggled with for years due to depression, body dysmorphia, etc.
I'm me, right?
I'm the only voice in my head.
So how the fuck are these seemingly out of character thoughts whiplashing me every night without my consent?
...
Honestly, I don't know.
I really don't.
But I do know it's pretty normal.
Everyone has weird, intrusive thoughts.
From the standard this fan is going really fast, I wonder what will happen if I touch it; I'm going to touch it, to the extreme visualisation of physically hurting someone.
I've had both thoughts and more, and they do unnerve me but not to the devastating extreme they do the lead in Pure.
Different brains, different afflictions, different methods of coping.
OCD is so common.
So, so, so common.
In all levels.
But like every mental health condition, it affects some people more than others.
And it doesn't make you broken or unlovable.
It's just another weird as shit way the brain likes to fuck with us lowly meat-sacks who haul it around all day.
(You think it'd have more respect for its sole mode of transport)
Pure shows this.
And it's awkward, and abrasive, and heartbreaking, and familiar.
I wasn't expecting to be wrung out so badly when I decided to watch this.
I thought it was going to be a lighthearted, humorous look at a side of mental health I'm not intimately acquainted with.
Y'know, the shit Channel 4 is really good at producing.
(Speaking of which, if you don't have Netflix, you can watch Pure on 4's streaming service for free - and lots of other awesome shows like: Crashing, Misfits, My Mad Fat Diary, The Great British Bake Off, The End of the F***ing World, Green Wing, Fresh Meat, Banana, Crazyhead and many, many more)
But it wasn't.
It was another step towards mental health being better understood and excepted.
And it hurt, it really hurt to watch but fuck me, it was worth the sodden pillowcase after my howl-fest.
Spinning away.
Watch Pure and look out for those words, you'll get it.
Speaking of bizarre brain nonsense:
.............................................
.............................................
.............................................
I miss my boys.
.............................................
Word of the day:
My brain's been invaded with images of Tom Cruise as a baby bovine.
And I can't tell if that's better or worse than run-of-the-mill, crazy couch-leaper Cruise....
.............................................
Booksmart:
...
I've watched this three times.
I could probably make it to double figures without getting tired of it.
It's that fucking good.
Y'know those stereotypical teen movies where two+ idiot boy-children need to get from point A to point B in a very specific amount of time for a very specific purpose?
But it takes them an inordinate amount of time because of all the gross fuck ups they encounter along the way?
Well, this one of those movies but with two magnificent females, legit teenage high jinks, and a kick-ass soundtrack.
...
This is how you get shit done.
.............................................
Have I introduced you to Weird Helga yet?
Time 2 wake up pic.twitter.com/j1ZjV3jYw8— Weird Helga (@WeirdHelga) March 24, 2020
This is a tame one.
Shit just gets weirder from here.
.............................................
I've never shipped this before.
...
...
Also, I'm not a Reylo but look at this fucking glorious fan art:
I might post some more Reylo fan art now that everyone's calmed the fuck down.
I've got no skin in this particular shipping game but damn do I appreciate the work the shippers are producing.
Especially cute as fuck things like this:
That's some squishy nonsense, right there.
.............................................
I've got no skin in this particular shipping game but damn do I appreciate the work the shippers are producing.
Especially cute as fuck things like this:
I better put all #Igualo in one thread pic.twitter.com/cEtLiy4Jou— 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦 (@_afterblossom_) April 26, 2020
That's some squishy nonsense, right there.
.............................................
Patricia Briggs', In Red with Pearls:
"Will I see you at home tonight?"
"I'll be in later," I said. "Maybe very late."
He looked at me seriously. "Don't get caught. Don't get hurt. Don't think I didn't notice that you're wearing a different shirt than you put on this morning and aren't using your right arm to eat with."
"I won't," I said earnestly. "I'll try not to. I would never try to get something like that by you."
He laughed, stood up and leaned across the narrow table, and kissed me, oblivious to the stares we got. The Tri-Cities is a pretty uptight town, and two men kissing in public is not a common sight.
A girl in the next table gave a wolf whistle and said, "Can I kiss the cowboy next?"
Okay, so maybe everyone wasn't that uptight.
Kyle gave her a cheeky grin. "Sorry. He's my cowboy, you'll have to find your own."
She sighed. "I have one. But he doesn't look like that when he blushes."
"Maybe if I kissed him, he would?" Kyle arched an eyebrow.
She laughed. And if some of the people might have made an offended scene about the kiss, she'd taken the edge off. I kissed her cheek in appreciation as I passed her table on the way out. Her cowboy might not blush, but she did.
...
That's all.
That's all I need.
Adorable OTP endorphin high achieved with a side of classic noir sleuthing.
.............................................
sploot pic.twitter.com/TJGmwkliWh— carrot (@carrotsprout_) February 22, 2020
(Can you feel the existential dread in this sploot? I certainly can)
.............................................
B&W Bloopers:
old Hollywood bloopers stitched together while I slowly go mad pic.twitter.com/QwiMFRzwyM— blu del barrio (@bludelb) April 11, 2020
Son of a bitch being uttered in that refined, old school Hollywood accent is aural porn.
.............................................
The Black Cauldron:
The watchlist so far?
Tangled
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
The Princess and the Frog
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
⭑⭑⭑⭑
Piper
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
La Luna
⭑⭑⭑⭑
For the Birds
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
Lava
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
Jack-Jack Attack
⭑⭑⭑
Partly Cloudy
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
The Blue Umbrella
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
I love this movie.
I love this movie.
I.
Love.
This.
Fucking.
Movie.
This is how I wish Disney animation still looked.
Painted backgrounds, soft focus film stock, and not a single uncanny valley character design in sight.
Plus, you've got to love this feral girl energy:
...
Disney+ is rotting my brain with animated serotonin highs.The watchlist so far?
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
⭑⭑⭑⭑
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭑
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
⭑⭑⭑
⭑⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
⭑⭑⭑⭐︎
.............................................
.............................................
Sketch?:
Erin Vest
(Twombly)
Mindy Lee
(You can tell they've been sitting in this position for a while. With a few lines you can tell. ... Art is magic)
(Twombly)
(You can tell they've been sitting in this position for a while. With a few lines you can tell. ... Art is magic)
(Damn you Instagram, I want to see this in full)
(Sofffffft)
Sometimes sketches mean more to me than the finished project.
Protect your sketchbooks.
.............................................
My heart... it's exploding.
.............................................
Trigger warnings:
This slapped me right in the face and I couldn't agree more.
“Romeo and Juliet ends sadly and no one was mad about that” yeah weirdly if you want to tell a tragedy you make it very clear at the start that these deaths are going to happen and isn’t something that happens as some kind of gritty shock twist— Dr. I'm That Hazel 🕯️ (@HazelMonforton) January 15, 2020
This slapped me right in the face and I couldn't agree more.
.............................................
100% accurate.
.............................................
We were all thinking it too.
.............................................
Tim Lebbon's, The Edge:
Panic begins to spread and Thorn soaks it up. He dances here, slashing a man's throat. He leaps there, shoving a broken pool cue into a woman's eye. People scream. They run and collide with each other, fighting to reach the door first, not understanding what's happening and struggling to flee the chaos.
Thorn is the chaos, and for a few seconds more he presents himself to the cameras, soaked in blood. He sticks up both middle fingers and grins.
"Hello, humans," he says. "Wait 'til you get a load of us."
...
Huh.
As far as I can tell, this is the last in the Relics series.
The very last.
The trilogy is complete.
Panic begins to spread and Thorn soaks it up. He dances here, slashing a man's throat. He leaps there, shoving a broken pool cue into a woman's eye. People scream. They run and collide with each other, fighting to reach the door first, not understanding what's happening and struggling to flee the chaos.
Thorn is the chaos, and for a few seconds more he presents himself to the cameras, soaked in blood. He sticks up both middle fingers and grins.
"Hello, humans," he says. "Wait 'til you get a load of us."
...
Huh.
As far as I can tell, this is the last in the Relics series.
The very last.
The trilogy is complete.
And to that, I reiterate:
Huh.
This is not written like a final instalment.
It, in fact, reads like the catalyst for the story to really begin.
The previous two books in the trilogy were an exercise in world-building, character development and establishing a mental bestiary of various mythological creatures known as the Kin.
Tim Lebbon's taken us from the gentrified streets of London proper, to the unmapped subterranean tunnels of the romanticised capital; across the ocean to the uninhabited forests of the new world, and finally to a pocket world created solely to sate a fairy's need to hunt and feed and kill.
He's shown us fallen angels, nymphs, satyrs, mermaids, shapeshifters, dwarves, werewolves, selkies.
Some good, some monstrous, all Kin.
Bones have been broken, human lives decimated, comrades lost, sacrificed, found again.
All in the name of the fight.
To stop a violent, otherworldly demagogue taking the world back for his species and enslaving humankind through an act named, Ascent, in the process.
This is the point we find ourselves in the last third of the book.
It's finally come, the Kin's crusade is succeeding, there's only a few last moves before the end of civilisation as we know it.
...
And then the book stops.
...
With a tentative ending.
...
And oh so many storylines left gaping like a Kin-inflicted chest wound.
...
What the fuck, Lebbon?
This can't be the end, surely?
There's so much left unsaid, unfinished, unexplored.
Were those newly discovered stygian depths you briefly let us peer into a tease?
What about that crack in the world?
The military now knowing of the Kin's existence? Humans now knowing of their existence.
What about Angela, and Vince, and Sammi?
Holy shit, what about Sammi?!
And Mallian and Grace and what the fuck happens next, Lebbon?
WHAT.
HAPPENS.
NEXT.
?!
I know it's bad luck to cross more than just one set of fingers in the hope of something happening but fuck it, I'm crossing all the things - except my eyes because... well I just can't do that - in desperation that Lebbon writes more stories in the world of the Kin.
If I need to become a human pretzel to get shit done, then so be it.
Bring on the salt.
Or mustard.
Or Nutella.
Bring all the condiments!
Huh.
This is not written like a final instalment.
It, in fact, reads like the catalyst for the story to really begin.
The previous two books in the trilogy were an exercise in world-building, character development and establishing a mental bestiary of various mythological creatures known as the Kin.
Tim Lebbon's taken us from the gentrified streets of London proper, to the unmapped subterranean tunnels of the romanticised capital; across the ocean to the uninhabited forests of the new world, and finally to a pocket world created solely to sate a fairy's need to hunt and feed and kill.
He's shown us fallen angels, nymphs, satyrs, mermaids, shapeshifters, dwarves, werewolves, selkies.
Some good, some monstrous, all Kin.
Bones have been broken, human lives decimated, comrades lost, sacrificed, found again.
All in the name of the fight.
To stop a violent, otherworldly demagogue taking the world back for his species and enslaving humankind through an act named, Ascent, in the process.
This is the point we find ourselves in the last third of the book.
It's finally come, the Kin's crusade is succeeding, there's only a few last moves before the end of civilisation as we know it.
...
And then the book stops.
...
With a tentative ending.
...
And oh so many storylines left gaping like a Kin-inflicted chest wound.
...
What the fuck, Lebbon?
This can't be the end, surely?
There's so much left unsaid, unfinished, unexplored.
Were those newly discovered stygian depths you briefly let us peer into a tease?
What about that crack in the world?
The military now knowing of the Kin's existence? Humans now knowing of their existence.
What about Angela, and Vince, and Sammi?
Holy shit, what about Sammi?!
And Mallian and Grace and what the fuck happens next, Lebbon?
WHAT.
HAPPENS.
NEXT.
?!
I know it's bad luck to cross more than just one set of fingers in the hope of something happening but fuck it, I'm crossing all the things - except my eyes because... well I just can't do that - in desperation that Lebbon writes more stories in the world of the Kin.
If I need to become a human pretzel to get shit done, then so be it.
Bring on the salt.
Or mustard.
Or Nutella.
Bring all the condiments!
.............................................
.............................................
A laaaaammmmp:
You wouldn't be blamed for thinking this was Bryn of Gumiponi fame losing her shit on the internet.
But no.
This is just Bryn.
It's why we love her.
...he'll eat all your jackets!
You wouldn't be blamed for thinking this was Bryn of Gumiponi fame losing her shit on the internet.
But no.
This is just Bryn.
It's why we love her.
...he'll eat all your jackets!
.............................................
I'm yelling:
Nessian are finally on their way.
Let the hate-flirting/banging commence.
...
Oh, sweet baby Illyrians, it's going to be so fucking good.
And look at the length of this mother:
...
.............................................
...
.............................................
Did I post this already?
Does it matter?
It doesn't matter.
.............................................
Does it matter?
It doesn't matter.
.............................................
This, my wonderful knuckleheads, is how an author asks for respect from their readers and gives it in return.
...
If only all of them were as perfect as my beloved House Andrews.
Ps. I'm having to squint while reading the latest, tentatively named, Ryder snippets because of all the spoilery spoilers.
This is why you finish the series before you read spinoff material.
...
I can't help myself, though!
If House Andrews writes it, I reads it.
And hey, lookit, my pleading to the literary gods got us KD fans a novella in the works.
.............................................
I could look at this for ten thousand years and not be done with it.
Those tiles.
That water ripple.
The foot indent.
The freckles.
The soap dish.
The reflection.
The face towel.
The colour balance.
The sofffffffftttttt.
...
I'm okay, I'm fine.
Those tiles.
That water ripple.
The foot indent.
The freckles.
The soap dish.
The reflection.
The face towel.
The colour balance.
The sofffffffftttttt.
...
I'm okay, I'm fine.
Ps. If you know why I chose this particular gif of Max from Happy Endings then congratulations, I like you.
Pps. I miss that show.
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