april

May 01, 2021

Things I enjoyed in the month of April:

Seanan McGuire's, An Artificial Night:

"Who rides here?"
"Blind Michael's Hunt, that sweeps the night," called the Riders, in perfect unison.
"Who Rides here?" The stress was subtle, but it was there.
"The children who would join us; the children we have won, bargained for, and stolen."
"Who do you ride for?"
"Blind Michael, who leads and loves us."
"Who do you Ride for?"
"For the Hunt itself. The hunt and the Ride and the night."
[...]
"May Oberon help you all."


It's been so long since I've read a truly despicable depiction of the Fae.
A story to show them in all their ghastly beauty.
The deal-makers.
The bride-makers.
The children-stealers.
Their legend is firmly rooted in depravity but so often traded for something more puckish than perverted.
And while I enjoy said puckishness, very much so in fact (see: The Cruel Prince, A Court of Thorns and Roses, Borderline, Mercy Thompson, Wintersong, The Bargainer, etc.), I always find myself craving something a little less gossamer and a little more gruesome.
I found that grimness in Peadar Ó Guilín's, The Call a couple of years ago and revelled in the baseness and creativity of the Fae's "playtime" with humanity.
Children stolen away to the faery realm to be broken and twisted into inexplicable, patchwork creatures full of rage and despair and unbidden hunger.
Hunted through a land just as vicious as its inhabitants; toyed with before their "rebirth" even occurs.
It was cruel and atavistic and it made me shudder with an unexpected familiarity.
Perhaps because Scotland is full of tales of the Fae.
Fairy rings and changelings.
Offerings of milk to the Cait Sidhe on Samhain Night.
The Sidlaws literally translates as Fairy Hills.
Glenshee is the Glen of the Fairies.
There are even tales of brownies just outside my hometown.
Scotland is rich with the Fae; it's an inherent part of our history but the tale of Tam Lin is perhaps our most beloved, wherein a human woman challenges the Queen of the Fairies to win back her captured lover on Halloween night.
And it serves as the basis for Seanan McGuire's, An Artificial Night.
Toby, our protagonist is tasked with the rescue of both fairy and human children who've been spirited away by the Fae version of the bogeyman, Blind Michael, one of the Queen of the Fairies' firstborn children, to become riders in his eternal hunt.
The Fae to ride.
The human to be changed and ridden.
And the only way to win them back is to follow the fairy paths by the light of a candle, through adolescence, by the thorns of a rose, and make a bargain with Blind Michael himself.
A self-appointed fairy god who mutilates children for his own amusement.


"His name is Blind Michael. His mother was Maeve and his father was Oberon. His domain was wider once, but none of us are what we once were." Her smile was brief and bitter, gone in an instant.
"He's Firstborn?"
"Yes," she nodded. "He saw the races of Faerie born, yours and mine alike."
"What does he have to do with this?"
"Have you never wondered where he gets the members of his Hunt?"
"What?" That wasn't a question that ever occurred to me. Blind Michael and his Hunt were part of the landscape, like the trees or the rocks. They didn't need to come from anywhere.
Her voice was calm and measured as she continued, like she was reciting something she'd memorized years before, something painful. "He rides them hard. Night after night through the darkest parts of the Summerlands, where there are still monsters, and old magic―he brings the madness with him. He rides them, and there are casualties. There are always casualties. Where do you think he finds his Riders? Who would willingly bow to such a fate?"
I stared at her, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. It wasn't easy to do; I'm not stupid. Damn it. "No one."
"No one," she agreed. Her eyes were too bright, but she wasn't crying. Yet. "And when there are no willing Riders, the unwilling will suffice."
"The children."
"Yes. Once a century. Fae children to be his Hunstman; human children to be their steeds. No locks can keep him out. No door can bar his way. He's too old and too strong, and he follows the laws of Faerie too closely to be caught."
I shook my head to clear away my growing horror, asking, " What does he do to them?
"Do?" She cocked her head. "He takes them and he binds them. Fae children ride, so they grow strong and fierce; human children are ridden, so they learn the way of hoof and bridle. And they are changed. Beware Blind Michael's children, Toby―beware all his children, no matter how honest or honorable they seem. [...] They're too lost. There is no peace for them. There is no salvation. There is nothing but the Hunt and the darkness and the hope that, one day, death will claim them." She shivered and turned her face away. "Be wary, beware Blind Michael's children and come back to us. Please."


...
I knew I was in trouble the moment I started reading this.
For me, this is Fantasy Valhalla.
Arcadia with glitter.
Heaven by spider-light.
I know I'm not alone in this but the more fucked up the fairy tale, the more engrossed I become.
I've always been attracted to the darker, creepier side of things, even when I was cowering under the covers at the sight of a Skeksis crumbling, leaping in and out of bed for fear of ankle-grabbers (like an honest to Oberon truncated gazelle), or swallowing Angela Carter's fairy tale retellings down like they were liquid ambrosia.
If it was fantastical and frightening, you'd find me enraptured and afeared.
I wouldn't call myself a horror fan, at least not with any conviction, but when it comes to fairy tales?
Let's just say, the moment I clapped eyes on creations like Neil Jordan's adaptation of The Company of Wolves, I knew this was my happy, somewhat bloody, place.
The very glimmer of Jareth in his Goblin Kingdom still delights and unnerves me.
If only I could watch Pan's Labyrinth for the first time again and experience that creepy rush of rightness.
These dangerous, delightful places feel, and will always feel, like home.
And An Artificial Night warrants that same affection.
In the same vein as as your classic fairy tale, specifically Tam Lin, our protagonist, our fairy knight, is petitioned with a seemingly unfulfillable quest.
Travel to a dangerous, distant land. Retrieve your quarry. Try not to die on the way back.
Simple enough, right?
If you've read any fairy tale before, you're aware there's always a catch.
The Fae are famed for brokering deals with a hidden plot cleverly woven within their words. They live for trickery and to win, especially at the expense of others.
Blind Michael is no exception to this rule, he's a perfect example of the malevolent fae.
The mere fact that he spirits children away in the night to force them into slavery is enough to rank him with the vilest of creatures.
The way he defiles them takes him to ranks so low they don't bear thinking about.
And it's reason enough for Toby, a half-changeling ex-knight with nothing more than a little magic and bloodymindedness to drop everything and save these children.
Because she's a hero.
Perhaps a reluctant one, but a hero nonetheless.
It's taken three books for her to realise this, accept it, even in the face of her own demise but she got there.
She finally realised something we knew all along.
But what makes this story somewhat different from its predecessors and the classic fairy tale narrative is that Toby isn't only the rescuer in this story, but someone also in need of rescue.
From the very beginning of this series Toby has shed an inordinate amount of blood.


One thing I've learned in my time working as a private investigator-slash-knight errant for the fae community of the San Francisco Bay Area: if something looks like it's going to be simple, it probably won't be. Some people might consider than an easy lesson. I must be a slow learner because it's been anything but easy. I've been turned into a fish, cursed, nearly drowned, impersonated, slashed, shot at, and had my car blown up―thankfully not while I was inside it, although it was a close call.


She's been beaten and betrayed and let down by those she thought she could trust.
She's also been helped by unexpected parties, reconnected with people she considered lost to her, and made new allies along the way.
She hasn't been alone.
But she has always, always, been the one to come through in the end, to issue the final blow.
Because she had to, because she was given no other choice, because it's in her blood to do so.
She's a hero.
But she isn't invincible and it showed in this story.
As in Tam Lin, Toby takes on the role of the mortal woman who challenges the Queen of the Fairies for the right to her human/fairy knight/lover.
In this case the roles are somewhat altered, the mortal woman becomes the half-Fae knight - Toby, the Queen a mad King - Blind Michael, and the lover a gaggle of fairy adolescents and one human girl.
The players are slightly different but the challenge remains the same.


How many miles to Babylon?
It's threescore miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Aye, and back again.
If your feet are nimble and your steps are light,
You can get there and back by the candle's light.


That Toby doesn't even think twice about whether or not to go up against an entity far more powerful than she to save children she both knows and doesn't is a blatant comment on her status as a hero, as a decent person.


Toby, if I say challenging him is futile, that you'll change nothing and only grant the omen you saw this morning power over you . . . if I say you can save your life and your heart by walking away from this, will it matter?"
Part of me―most of me―wanted to say, "Yes, it would matter; please tell me to stay here. If you tell me, I'll stay." I didn't want to go. I'm not a hero; I never have been. I just do what has to be done.
But when you get right down to it, isn't that the definition of hero?
"No," I said. "It won't."


She practically bleeds selflessness.
Valiant to the end.
And it worries me.
Because she's worthy of caring about whether she lives or dies. She's worthy of knowing she matters.
But watching as she treks through Blind Michael's barren fairy lands in search of her fairy brethren, hunted by sadistic, twisted Fae, it's impossible to imagine she would put herself in any less danger if it meant doing the right thing.
...
Because she's a hero.
Which is why, when the roles start to alter yet again, when Toby becomes the captured Fairy Knight, no longer the one come to save the day but the one in need of rescue, it provides an opportunity for her to see that even though she may feel as though she has nothing to lose, that her sacrifice is the only thing she has to offer, that she's dispensable, she's couldn't be further from the truth:


"Who would come for her?" he snarled, rallying.
Behind me, a voice shouted, "Tybalt, King of Cats. My claim precedes yours."
"Cassandra Brown, student physicist," shouted another voice. "Give me back my aunt!"
"Quentin, foster of Shadowed Hills. You will give me back my friend and my lady!"
"Connor O'Dell! She's my friend and you can't have her!"
[...]
They'd come for me? All of them?


There are moments in fiction where the expected happens.
When you know what's coming.
It isn't shocking in the least.
But it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter because that self-fulfilling prophecy is sometimes the thing that makes your heart pang with satisfaction.
You're rewarded for the scope of emotion you're put through whilst reading.
You're rewarded for putting your faith and trust in an author, in a group of characters.
You're rewarded for perhaps being a little naive.
And that reward is an incredibly meaningful gift when literature means so much to me, us, the readers.
It's why I will die on the hill of Happy Ever Afters.
Why I'll never forgive shock-jock writing.
It's why when these people, a sea-witch, a king of cats, a selkie, a knight in training show up for Toby when she needs them, no questions asked, because they love her, my stupid heart nearly beat its way out of my chest.
I knew it was coming and it didn't matter because I was rewarded, Toby was rewarded for doing her best, asking for nothing in return but receiving more than she could ask for.
And to be honest, the person that meant the most for showing up was actually Connor, her pacifist selkie.


Connor has always been that great cliché, a lover, not a fighter, but there was no fear in his voice. He was taking me home or he wasn't going home at all.


Connor is an incredibly important character in Urban Fantasy simply because he's not very strong and he's not very brave, he's not your expected alpha male.
(Although, as we have all come to realise, the alpha hierarchy exists in chickens, not wolves. Hard to read alpha-bros strutting around without hearing clucking these days...)
But he shows up because he loves Toby.
That's so significant in a hero-dominated landscape.
Not everyone can be a champion, not everyone can put their battle-face on and just deal with it.
Some of us are scared and weaker but bravery isn't something we're ignorant to, or out of our reach, it just doesn't come as easily.
Which is why we need more characters like Connor to show this, we need a hero to appear in various forms.
We need more squeamish selkies.
This, however, doesn't lessen the effect a classic hero has on me.
I will admit that when Tybalt was the first to shout his claim for Toby, I made a ridiculous noise.
Half yelp, half squee.
Because he's Tybalt and I ship these two hard.


Squaring my shoulders, I met his eyes and said, "My Fetch showed up this morning."
"Ah," he said softly. "I should have known it was something of the sort." Before I had a chance to react, he stepped forward, kissing me on the forehead. "I have to return to my Court and let the parents of the missing ones know that you've agreed. I'll come to you later."
I stared at him, stunned. "What . . . ?"
"Open roads, Toby. Find our children." He hesitated like he was about to say something else, but he didn't; he just turned and walked to the edge of the parking lot.
"What . . . ?" I repeated, standing there with my keys dangling in my hand.
Looking back over his shoulder, he smiled, almost shyly, stepped into the shadows, and was gone.
"This is officially getting strange..."


Have since the moment they started bickering in book one and it's gotten progressively worse since.
Why does hate-flirting turn me into such a blithering idiot?
Why does Toby snapping at Tybalt and then surreptitiously (although, he totally knows) checking out his behind bring me so much joy?
Why does Tybalt being a cryptic asshole give me the happy shivers?


"You've told me certain untruths, little fish, and it was important that I know the reasons. Now I know that you didn't know any better, and we can proceed."


Because it does, okay?
Because. It. Does.
But in the words of our eponymous hero:


"Tybalt! Don't you dare say cryptic shit and then run out on me!" His exit was made; he didn't reappear.
Bastard.


...
WHAT DOES THIS MEAN, SEANAN?!
Is this the start of him courting my girl?
It is something else?
It is it bad?
Is it going to become clear in the NEXT FUCKING BOOK?!
...
This might just kill me.
Kill me dead.
McGuire?

A fae-damned tease.
At least while I gently decompose in agony there's the Luidaeg to keep me entertained.
Here lies yet another trope I inexplicably cannot get enough of: The incredibly grumpy, incredibly powerful immortal who takes a shine to the protagonist and somewhat adopts them as their own whilst giving them shit the entire time.
...

The relationship between the Luidaeg (Loo-sha-k, say it with me, Loo-sha-k) and Toby is so disgustingly cute I find myself not knowing where to look.
She's mean, she threatens Toby with certain death every other minute, but she'll give her cuddles when she needs them.


The Luidaeg sighed and put her arms around me, pulling me close. "Come here," she said. "I need to hold someone, and you need to be held. It's a fair trade. Just for a little while, and then we can go on being what we are."
I thought about objecting, but dismissed the idea and nestled against her, enjoying the feeling of security given by knowing someone bigger and stronger than I was would stop anything from hurting me. That's all childhood is after all: strong arms to hold back the dark, a story to keep the shadows dancing, and a candle to mark the long journey into day. A song to keep the flights of angels at bay. How many miles to Babylon? Sorry, I don't care.


Uh, excuse me but who allowed this adorable barbarism to occur?
Oh yeah, it's that sadist, McGuire again.
Milady, I'd like to issue my thanks, those cuddles were a bright spot in a brutally shitty year.
And there was so much Luidaeg/Toby interactions in this book it made me positively giddy.
It's the same giddiness I experienced whenever the Suriel would spill the tea with Feyre in ACoTaR.
A big scary monster type who could crush the hero with a thought and they're hanging out like besties?
I swoon.
I die.
I internally combust.
Long may my dissolution continue in the face of terrifying cuteness.
And the realisation that the Luidaeg may not want to kill Toby as much as she threatens.
If the amount she guides, and helps, and stands up for Toby in this book, I'd say she might just want to keep her around for a while.
I just hope it doesn't and equally does involves things as fucked up as Seanan McGuire's take on the The Wild Hunt, known as The Slúagh in Scottish Gaelic.
The legend of the Hunt is that of a band of ghostly riders (human fae, Unseelie fae, elves, Valkyrie) led by an Odin-like figure (explains Blind Michael) chasing down souls to spirit away to their fairy kingdom to become part of the eternal hunt.
Some are even taken in their sleep to join in their revels, their bodies left behind.
It's brutal and violating and utterly engrossing to read.
Three times we follow Toby into Blind Michael's lands.
Three times I held my breath until we made it out.
Yes, we.
Because I felt every stygian second Toby and I spent trapped in wooded darkness being hunted, searching for those children.
I felt every slap, every wound, every moment of despair and there's a part of me that would gladly return.
Which is the exact power of Blind Michael's magic and the magic of Seanan McGuire's storytelling.
They suck you in and promise you boundless spoils if you agree to stay in their lands with them.
...
Colour me weak and dress me in thistledown, I'm staying to be the Queen of the fucking Fairies.

Ps. I would just like to point out that Toby spent a fair chunk of this book the size of an eight/nine year old and my imagination was having a field-day.
A surly pubescent with the mentality of a seasoned, foul-mouthed fairy is just...

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

Baby Kermie and assorted froggos:
Shan Horan

Samantha Whitten

bib

yogin幺菁

A fearsome beast

Sam Pink's, Piece A Shit


Don't you just love froggos?
Baby Kermit will be the death of me.

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National Theatre's, Romeo & Juliet:

It's the same story, again and again.
And yet.
I've seen it on stage, in animation, in film, on tv.
And now on stage on the tv.
And it loses nothing.
This production was a parallel of behind the scenes rehearsal and on stage performance, and it leant the story a dreamlike quality.
As if the play itself is more real than the walk-through.
The actors the fever dream, the characters the trapped players.
It was... beautiful.
Dark and brooding and eerie.
And a little hopeless.
A reflection, almost.
I've watched it twice now and I'm leaning towards a third.
It's one those stories.
It never gets old, it never ceases to be unstoppably tragic, it's something I can watch over and over again.
(But not the Douglas Booth/Hailee Steinfeld ada. I really like both of them but yikes, what a dumpster fire)
And it made me miss the theatre terribly, and it's been years since I've seen a production in person.
I was lucky enough to be taken to the RSC in Stratford a few times when I was a kid, and there's nothing like seeing Shakespeare on stage.
Which I think is possibly the only downfall of this particular production.
When you're in the theatre, whatever seat, you're instantly an active participant in the story.
Whether the fourth wall is broken or not, you're a player in the production just by witnessing it.
It can't be helped.
That changes when the play is filmed.
It still looks the same, sounds the same but it doesn't look the same, it doesn't sound the same.
You're an observer now, no longer a participant.
And that is where I think this lost something.
It wasn't like being in the theatre and it wasn't like watching a movie either.
It was something else entirely; not bad or necessarily good, just... different.
And to be honest, even though it wasn't perfect and it didn't instil me with that same feeling I had as a kid, I just want more.
If the National Theatre, or any theatre, can only stage their productions this way for the foreseeable future, then so be it.
(R&J was filmed on one quarantined stage, over 17 days, during the pandemic)
I'll happily take it.

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

Bev Johnson's OOTD game:

Serious outfit envy.

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

Whalebone corsets:

...

I've got just enough fucks to put jeans on in the morning.

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


...
If you take this as just a movie, it's a lot of fun.
Killer soundtrack?
Big fuck you to the patriarchy?
The douchebag dude-bro gets his comeuppance in the end?
Yes to all.
The problem is, this should be a movie about women standing strong together, for each other, with each other.
Not a white girl's coming of age; especially when said girl isn't the one who suffers the abuse within the story.
The Black girl is.
It should have been her story, not someone else's secondhand experience of it.
That really shouldn't be so hard to do.

...........

There's a more in depth article about this over on Cosmopolitan.

Ps. I did enjoy this cinnamon roll, however:

He can stay.

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I feel like I need a print of this, preferably on something sturdy, to slap "True Fans" around the face with every time they say condescending exclusionist wank.

Like the things you like.
To whatever depth of knowledge.
And tell the fanboys to go fuck an electric outlet.

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


...
I want oneeeeeee.
Red, yellow, orangeeeeeee.
But they only ship within the USSSSSSS.
FML.*

*Fully aware I could buy a cap and sew this myself but just let me crybaby it our for a sec, 'kay?

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Kanye/Michael/Rayymon Beatz:

...

You can say a lot about Kanye as a person but there's no denying masterful sampling shit when you hear it.

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Compositionally satisfying:
Jordi Lafebre

Gaia Alari

Carlotta Dicataldo

Juanmao

The arrogance of those who say I could do that when they see a piece of art.
You couldn't. You really couldn't.
Composition is no easy feat, you fuckers.

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


I don't know if this excels any other romance I've read or seen, and it pisses me off that it's given more airtime simply because it's categorised under Literary Fiction instead of Romance ... when it is quite clearly Romance.
A genre that's been denigrated pretty much since publishing began because it's "chick fiction", right?
And love and sex and friendship can't be considered literature under that genre title, right?
...
Excuse me while I barf into the abyss.
Enough, already.
Romance is as worthy a genre as any other.
Fantasy.
Crime.
Sci-fi.
Historial.
They all have the same ratio of eye-stabbingly unendurable rot and life-altering glimpses of genius.
And all that fun stuff in the middle.
It's why whilst watching Normal People I couldn't help but be annoyed.
This isn't a story a level above the rest.
It doesn't defy convention or alter the current state of fiction.
It's a coming of age story.
Teen angst and bullshit adulthood.
It's sex and love and friendship.
But it's given more credit simply because of its literary classing.
Gross.
Just gross.
This adaptation, though?
I couldn't take my eyes off it.
I thought about it after I'd finished the three episode dosage I was allowing myself each night.
I thought about it while watching other things.
I thought about it when I was trying to fall asleep.
I just thought about it.
And that is purely because of the two leads.

They are complex, and quiet, and stifling.
No different from any other portrayal of a complex relationship but the acting took it a level beyond what's expected from people in their early twenties.
This is a strangely claustrophobic yet comforting piece of television.
The entire time I felt like I was intruding on a series of private moments between two people who haven't exactly welcomed you in but will tell you their story nonetheless.
It was mesmerising, entrancing, bewitching, whatever adjective you can name for being gladly caught in someone else's gaze.
And that's what Normal People is: a trapping.
From the end of childhood to the beginning of adulthood we're beckoned through a relationship between, as cliché as it may seem, soulmates.
Best friends.
Confidants.
Loves.
And it's painful and obnoxiously introspective at times but there's just no possible way to look anywhere but at these two people.

Especially, in my opinion, Connell, the male lead.
Paul Mescal's portrayal of that guy, the one we've all encountered: the smart, sporty, shy yet naturally popular and well-liked guy.
The all-rounder.
Mescal managed to embody that role from the way he held himself, the way he spoke, to the way every vulnerability practically shone from his skin.
Much to the viewer's discomfort at times.
I truly believe this show should come with some form of trigger warning for those, like myself, who deal with mental health.
The scenes of Connell's first and continuing experiences of university were almost too much for me to watch because I was that person at university.
I felt uninvited and awkward with everyone I met. Not disliked but just not necessarily embraced or even needed.
Like Connell I went from a steadfast group of friends in high school to being essentially alone with a few friends who I didn't feel comfortable enough to be myself with.
It was painful and seeing it on screen gave me the mental equivalent of acid reflux.
And it got worse when Connell's eventual breakdown came to pass.
These words broke me because I've said them a thousands times to myself:


I don't really click with a lot people. I, I struggle with that, actually.
I would say, um... in school I definitely felt that feeling of isolation or whatever, But um... People seem to like me. Everything, and... here, I don't think that, uh... people like me that much.
I think... I think I thought if I... moved here... I'd fit in better. I thought, um... I'd meet more like-minded people but that just hasn't... um...
I left Carricklea thinking I could have a different life.
But I... I hate it here and... I can never go back.
I can't get that life back.


Sometimes watching or reading something about mental health can be a comfort, like someone saying I'm here, I feel it too.
But other times it's as though a mirror is being held up to reflect all the hurts you've endured and won't ever be able to erase completely.
Normal People is one those times and it hurt so badly to watch, even though I couldn't look away from Paul Mescal's performance, which was beautiful as much as it was agonising.
And I'm glad that moment exists on screen.
I'm glad this form of social anxiety and depression was addressed because so often the quieter sides of mental health are ignored.
And they shouldn't be.

This show wasn't perfect, it wasn't mind-blowing, it has a number of loose ends that I feel needed to be addressed, and I still believe it should be classified under Romance instead of Literary Fiction but for all its faults and my quibbles, it was an intimate and beautifully acted/filmed/scored piece of television (especially those first three episodes) that I'm incredibly glad I watched.
And will watch again.
I think I might even buy it.
A true sign of love: buying a physical copy in a digital age.


Fanart time:
Anna Broadhurst

Drop Dead Thread
(Original art by Henn Kim)

Bethany Mannion of Spilt Milk Press

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...

I really did have bird skulls in my bag in high school.
I borrowed them from the art department for a project and sort of never gave them back.
Then there's the deer skull I brought back from a childhood holiday.
Found it in the woods next to the rental house we were staying in.
Thought it was cool.
Asked the Dadmonster if I could take it home.
He said yes.
...
Is that good parenting?
I can't tell.

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The Jellybean Appreciation Society:

The sisterling showing she totally loves me with unexpected pinnage.
(I think it's from here, I should've asked but I forgot...)
And then sending me this:
https://curiousobsession101.tumblr.com/post/649315069815144448


...

The accuracy is uncanny.

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Generally, I'm here for any and all Ghibli reworks.
But especially the ones with insane colour sensitivity.
I'm crazy for those shades of red.

Also, Bev Johnson is very wise:

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Cute.
But kind of obnoxious.
There's being conscious of the social climate and then there's being a condescending dick about it.
...
Excellent outfits, though.
Olivia Junkeer looked fucking insane:
https://shesnake.tumblr.com/post/643447294125096962/olivia-junkeer-in-why-are-you-like-this-2021

This gifset does no justice to her majesty.
Watch the show for the full effect.
But beware of overzealous eyerolls.

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Background details.
Goddamn background details.
And use of light.
Such a glow up.
I think I appreciate these things even more than character work.
Except those exposed bones are calling to me...

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Lennnie making us all feel better by being ADORABLE and speaking truths.
More examples of said truthful adorableness:
(Rent free in my brain for the rest of eternity)


See.
Adorable.

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

Two awesome covers for two books I did not enjoy:
Cinder by Marissa Meyer
Artwork by Tomer Hanuka

I'm really annoyed I didn't like this but it was maybe a little too early teen for me?
And the unnecessary death was so not cool, Meyer.

I really wanted the rest of series for Tomer Hanuka's kickass illustrative work, though.
Oh well.

Hot Dog Girl by Jennifer Dugan
Artwork by Jeff Östberg

I just can't with this book.
Jesus Christ.
Yet another shitty, self-absorbed heroine who fucks over everyone she supposedly loves and then gets the happy ending because she's so, so sorry.
To that I say:

I've got to stop letting myself get sucked in by pretty cover art.
How dare the contents not be a reflection of the precious hot dog on the front!

...
It is really pretty, though...

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


...
BECAUSE THEY'RE IN LOVE.
...
Not sure why this makes me feel so much but whatever, let the capitalised feels continue.

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

Tom Lum and the bees:

I will say this only once:

THIS IS HOW YOU SHOULD TEACH SCIENCE (and everything else) IN SCHOOLS.

That way I won't start stabbing a pencil into my arm to prevent the imminent nappage my brain so desperately desires the minute any educator starts speaking.
...

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

The baby loves the sunshine:

The baby loves to "help" during photoshoots:

The baby loves to pass out on my end of the bed with zero fucking remorse:

...

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


Bryn, you're killing me.

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


The only problem with food as cute as this is I wouldn't be able to eat it.
That koi pond cake?
Those doughnuts?
Those soot sprite fries?
...
Okay, no, I could eat the soot sprite fries.
But everything else?

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

These McKenna Jean Harris Lois and Clark potential moments are so damn cute:

Dopey, clueless puppy Clark is my favourite kind of Clark.
Which is probably why Lois & Clark has always been my favourite version of their relationship:

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


You know those serene moments in Anime where nature does all the talking whilst a beautiful nymph-like creature contemplates life, the universe and everything?
That's what these watercolours feel like.

Speaking of watercolour, this is an accurate representation of what happens whenever I've tried it:

Or any form of painting.
It makes no damn sense!
Ink and charcoal for this troglodyte.

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


I can't stop cackling.
I wish I could stay awake through The Mandalorian so I could get the full Baby Yoda experience but it's just so fucking boring.
And that's from a Star Wars fan.

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


Animators blow my mind.
How do they even come up with this stuff?

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


This is why concealing nipples makes no sense to me.
We've been celebrating them in art for millennia.
Sometimes in incredibly important ways, like this post-mastectomy tattoo by Tanya Buxton:

And yet the purity police are banning them from the internet.
...
NIPPLES ARE NOT INHERENTLY SEXUAL, YOU MORONS, AND EVEN IF THEY WERE, WHAT'S THE BIG FUCKING PROBLEM?!
...

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


Also, YES.
I do this contantly and I hate it.
Why can't my brain just let me enjoy things?

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


...

I want it.
I want it bad.

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


I've run out of words.
All I can do is lackadaisically squee at these Pokémon watercolours.
Can you hear it?
It's like a balloon deflating.
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