he's coming for the children, he's taken the child, he's taken my grandchild, he's come for my grandchild, the nightwalking man, hoyt pickens suckles on the babies, on the sweet fat babies with their fat little legs, he's dug in like a tick, he's dug in like a tick and he's sucking everything out of you patricia, he's come for my grandchild, wake up patricia, wake up, the nightwalking man is in your house, he's on my grandchild, wake up, patricia, patricia wake up, wake up, wake up . . .
Here's the thing: I'm pissed off.
For many reasons.
Most of which, if not all, involve me divulging multiple spoilers, and getting increasingly furious whilst using what the polite people like to call "colourful language".
...
I'm gonna curse like a seasoned sea-chef and reveal pivotal plot points, in other words; it's going to be chaotic as fuck.
Therefore, usual rules apply: if you want to remain unspoiled, back away now, don't take a quick peek down yonder thinking you'll get away with it (you won't), just look away, cover your eyes, be the ostrich all us spoilerphobics know ourselves to be, because I cannot, will not be held responsible for the vast quantity of vitriol I am about to spew over this fucking book.
Last chance.
...
...
...
...
Seriously, last one.
...
...
...
...
...
*big inhale*
THIS. FUCKING. BOOK.
...
It's officially spooky season, and being the basic Halloween bitch who gets excited over festively-shaped chocolate, new monster shows/movies, old monster shows/movies, and the continuation of my longtime search for the perfect Halloween mug that I am, I wanted to read something creepy.
Something that'd send some shivers down ye olde janked up spine (I live in hope that one day a jump scare'll reset m'bones and they'll no longer feel like Lego crunching together), raise some follicles, get me in the spooky mood!
I've been holding onto it basically since it came out two years ago; I bought it immediately, had been coveting it since I saw it drifting through Goodreads as an instant horror five star read, hell, the title and the cover lured me in like a sugar-deprived honeybee and I wanted to own. this. bitch.
And so I did.
And then proceeded to squirrel it away until my gut told me (it makes all my literary decisions) it was time to gently crack that spine open (you're not allowed to borrow my books if you're going to spatchcock them, that's instant book jail) and discover all its creepy, vampiric secrets.
Cue the third of October.
It's the small hours, I'm hunkered down in my cosy nest (aka. slowly suffocating under my duvet), my neck torch(highly recommend) beaming just the right level of brightness, and a copy of TSBCGtSV perched on my abdomen.
It was suburban, mundane, retro, and eerie in that Stephen King way that I only enjoy when other people do it because King's seriously overrated in my opinion.
Three of my favourite movies and the only King book I genuinely enjoyed.
...
As you can imagine, I was having the best time.
Or at least, I was having the best time for the first hundred pages or so and then something started to feel... off.
The story was engrossing, the atmosphere compelling, the tension steadily building, but after being introduced to the eponymous book club and the story's protagonist, Patricia, I started to sense some hinkiness.
This was a book about women, right?
Specifically housewives, the backbone, thigh meat and shoulder muscle of the homestead? The under-appreciated and the underpaid? The women who'll cook you dinner, bandage your cuts, and hug you goodnight?
Those women? If we're going by the stereotype?
And they're reading books, doing the laundry, and slaying vampires in their spare time?
...
Uh, OKAY.
That all sounds amazing, truly epic lady shit: the maligned housewife taking down the pointy-toothed patriarchy, what's not the love about that?
By the light of the fireworks she looked at the women sitting around her: Grace in a lawn chair, eyes closed, listening to the music; Kitty, asleep on her back, plastic wineglass tipping dangerously in one hand; Maryellen in her overalls, legs stretched out in front of her, taking in the Charleston's finest; and Slick, legs tucked beneath her, head cocked, listening to the music like it was homework.
Patricia realized that for four years, these were the women she'd seen every month. She'd talked to them about her marriage, and her children, and gotten frustrated with them, and argued with them, and seen all of them cry at some point, and somewhere along the line, among all the slaughtered coeds, and shocking small-town secrets, and missing children, and true accounts of the cases that changed America forever, she'd learned two things: they were all in this together, and if their husbands ever took out a life insurance policy on them they were in trouble.
Wellllllll, when the author happens to be a man who clearly knows jack-shit about women and is trying to write a book championing feminism by way of the bloodsucker, it's a huge fucking problem.
*pauses for the misandrists name-calling to commence*
I don't generally support gatekeeping in literature; I believe that, yes, if you have personal experience with something then it does give you the upper hand in relaying it to an audience because there's an innate understanding of the subject matter, but I don't believe that others with less or no experience should be barred from writing that same subject matter.
Do your research, interview your sources, and for the love of Nosferatu himself, get that shit beta read, and safety read, THRICE, by multiple fucking people before you put it out into the world.
I mean, there aren't any vampires out there to check your facts with (I think? If I'm wrong, hit me up, I wanna read forever) but there are literally millions of women, half the fucking planet, and a significant percentage of them housewives, to interview.
No excuses.
Do the fucking work.
Because otherwise you end up like Grady Hendrix, writing a story led by opaque women with no inner life, hunting vampires with faux cries of fuck the patriarchy!, and it falling completely flat, and frankly, insulting.
And I didn't notice at first, I was lured in by the promise of gross happenings, and atmosphere, and the fact that the beginning of the story reads like an episode of Goosebumps:
A handsome new neighbour moves in next door and he's mysteriously allergic to daylight, an old women suspiciously goes rabid and starts chewing on the local wildlife, all the while kids in the next (poorer) neighbourhood over are becoming lethargic and sick and committing suicide?
I mean, I'm pretty sure I watched that episode of Goosebumps.
It's the perfect setup, especially if you're looking for that hokey, (but still scary) 80s horror vibe, it ticks all the boxes.
And I could tell that Hendrix had nailed this aesthetic pretty early on, particularly in a scene near the beginning of the story that a) felt like every b-movie horror movie I've ever enjoyed, and b) creeped the bejesus out of me because when you live in a home that has creaking horror house aspirations and you possess a vivid, nightmarish imagination that good ol' Freddie would be proud of, scenes like this make you a bit... stressed, shall we say:
... beyond the reach of the lights, the night was a black wall. Patricia felt eyes out there looking in her house, watching her and the children through the glass. The scar tissue on her left ear began to crawl. The wind tossed the bushes and trees. The house creaked quietly to itself. They all watched, looking for something that didn't belong.
"Mom," Blue said, low and even.
She saw his gaze fixed on the top of the sun porch windows. The roof of the sun porch was a shingled overhang outside her bedroom windows, and along its edge Patricia caught something slowly and deliberately move and she knew immediately what it was: a human hand, letting go of the edge of the overhang and withdrawing back up and out of sight.
She had the phone against her ear in an instant.
Excuse me while I FULL BODY SHUDDER.
The hand... ugh, blech, no.
Why is that worse than a full monster reveal?
WHY?!
...
What really made this scene for me, though was that while I was reading it, a spider the size of palm decided this was their moment, now was the perfect time to abseil from the ceiling, land on book pile number seventeen of eighty five with an audible, nail-tapping thud and proceed to stare into my fucking soul.
...
Why are they like this?!
Needless to say, I quickly evicted the oversized gentleman (apparently all house spiders are male. Why? Because they're trolling for a good "webbing". Not a joke, our houses are full of horny arachnids) before he could commence his procreation hunt, and returned to see what creepy hell Grady Hendrix was going to put me through next, and whether any other invertebrates were going to add a splash of horror sauce to the proceedings.
He did not disappoint (luckily, the bugs did).
After the reveal of the eponymous vampire, which happened, surprisingly, a third of the way through, the menace of the story significantly ramped up.
Gone were those summer days of letting the kids run loose and leaving all the windows open at night.
For two months, ever since she'd been bitten, Patricia had felt useless and scared. The Old Village she'd lived in for six years had always been someplace safe, where children left their bicycles in their front yards, and only a few people ever locked their front doors, and no one ever locked their back doors. It didn't feel safe now. She needed an explanation, something she could solve that would make everything go back to the way it was.
Vampires were real and the neighbourhood's about to get phlebotomised (don't come for me, Word Police, I'm creating here).
And I was loving every second, genuinely engrossed, part of which I attributed to the particular way Hendrix writes,
The last bell of the day rang somewhere deep inside the bowels of the Albemarle Academy and the double doors opened and disgorged a mob of small children strapped beneath bulging, spine-bending book bags. They hobbled to the car pool area like elderly gnomes, bent double beneath three-ring binder and social studies boos. Patricia saw Korey and pecked at the horn. Korey looked up and broke in a loping run that made Patricia's heart hurt.
The way he draws you in, making you feel safe, protected, consuming you with the nostalgia of long, hot summers with vague parental supervision, and then ripping it all away with a violence you didn't see coming.
In the story, the naive innocence of Patricia's life is shattered so abruptly and shockingly that it's almost as if it doesn't happen.
A man's back bent over something on the floor, his rear end and the soles of his work boots turned toward her, and then his back reared up, and he turned into the flashlight's beam and she saw James Harris. But there was something wrong with the lower half of his face. Something black, shiny, and chitinous like a cockroach's leg, stuck several inches out of his mouth. His jaws hung open, stupefied, as he blinked blearily in the light, but otherwise his body didn't move as this long insectoid appendage slowly withdrew into his mouth, and when it had retreated fully, he closed his lips and she saw that his chin and cheeks and the tip of his nose were coated in slick, wet blood.
Beneath him a young black girl lay sprawled on the floor, long orange T-shirt pushed up to her stomach, legs akimbo, an ugly dark purple mark on the inside of one thigh, oily with fluids.
James Harris slapped the palm of one hand against the metal side of the van and the vehicle shook from side to side as he hauled himself to his feet. He squinted and Patricia realized her flashlight had blinded him. He took an insteady, lurching step toward her. She froze, not knowing what to do, and then he took another step, rocking the van more, and she realized there was only three feet between them. The little girl moaned and squirmed like she was asleep, whimpering like Ragtag in his dreams.
The van rocked as James Harris took another step. There were maybe two feet between them now and she had to do something to get that little girl out of there, and he still squinted into the flashlight beam. He reached for it slowly, fingers outstretched, inches from her face. Patricia ran.
There's no evidence of it, no one but the villain of the story to confirm what she saw, she can't prove anything.
She's entirely alone, and being convinced at every turn that she didn't see what she saw, her mind must have been playing tricks on her, it couldn't possibly be true, she's just a silly housewife who reads true crime novels with other silly little housewives.
...
And so it goes for the entirety of the story.
A woman traumatised, pointedly victimised, abused, gaslit, manipulated, and unbelieved.
The lament of women the world over.
And Hendrix completely misses the fucking point.
This book should have been feminist as fuck, a chance to portray the hell women go through on a daily basis at the hands of bad men and even seemingly good men, and how when we fight back we're punished for it, and punished for it, and. punished. for. it.
Convinced we felt nothing, we're being too touchy, they didn't mean it that way, don't be so emotional.
The endless ways in which women are collectively beaten down and forced to just "carry on".
But still fighting back, in small ways and big ways; and even when we don't or we can't, we're still fighting to keep quiet enough just to stay alive, mentally and physically.
In the case of Patricia, it's all of the above.
"What do you want from us?"
"I care for you," he said. "I care for your family. I see how Carter treats you and it makes me furious. He throws away what I would treasure. Blue things the world of me already, and Korey has already done so much to help me that she had my eternal gratitude. I'd like to think we could come to an understanding."
He wanted her family. It came to her in an instant. He wanted to replace Carter. This man was a vampire, or as close to one has she would ever see. She remembered Miss Mary talking in the dark all those years ago.
They have a hunger on them. They never stop talking. they mortgaged their souls away and now they eat and eat and eat and never know how to stop.
He'd found a place where he fit in, with a nearby source of food, and he'd become a respected member of the community, and now he wanted to have a family because he didn't know how to stop. He always wanted more. That knowledge opened a door inside her mind and the bats flew out in a ragged black stream, leaving her skull empty and quiet and clear.
[...]
He would say anything to get what he wanted. He had no limits. And she knew that the moment he suspected she knew what he wanted, her children would be in danger.
[...]
Her one job as a parent was to protect her children from monsters. The ones under the bed, the ones in the closet, the one hiding in the dark. Instead, she'd invited the monster in to her home and been too weak to stop it from taking whatever it wanted. The monster had killed her mother-in-law, seduced her husband, taken her daughter, and her son.
She was too weak to stop him alone, but he had to be stopped.
The moment James Harris appears in her life, she becomes both smaller and bigger, kept hidden and made an example of, disciplined for speaking up and congratulated when she obeys.
By her husband.
"Dad said I didn't have to listen to you," Korey told her. "He said you were going through a phase."
It touched a fire inside her, but Patricia had the clarity to see how carefully Carter had built this trap for her. Anything she did would prove him right. She could hear him saying, in his smooth psychiatric tones, It's a sign of how sick you are, that you can't see how sick you are.
By her children, her friends and their spouses, James Harris.
"Ladies," Carter said. Clearly the other men had elected him their spokesman. "We need to have a serious talk."
[...]
"Do you ever want to know what we have to say?" Patricia asked.
"We got the gist," Carter said.
"Now," Patricia said. "If you haven't heard what we have to say, then you have no right to tell us who we can and can't speak to. We're not our mothers. This isn't the 1920s. We're not some silly biddies sitting around sewing all day and gossiping. We're in the Old Village more than any of you, and something is very wrong here. If you had any respect for us at all, you'd listen. [...] We are your wives. We are the mothers of your children, and we believe there is a real danger here," she said. "Does that not count for something?"
And worst of all, herself.
...for a moment Patricia saw him, chin dripping black blood, something inhuman retracting back into his mouth, and then she hustled that image away and saw him the way she saw him so often―waving as he walked through the neighbourhood in the evenings, at book club, at their table when Carter invited him over for supper. It had been dark in the back of his van, It had been so long ago, She wasn't even exactly sure of what she'd seen. It had probably been nothing. He had done so much for them.
It was better not to think about it.
It's horrifying to read, a razor sharp example of why women more often than not just put up and shut up, because even when speak up, the chances of being believed are minimal, and if on the rare occasion our truth is taken as fact, we're ultimately demonised for it.
She was asking for it, that bitch just wants alimony, she's probably faking it for attention.
Common phrases that every women will either hear about herself or someone she knows.
Just look at the media, the percentage of abuse cases never taken seriously, the deaths of women for simply saying no.
Patricia said no, over and over again, until she was forced to say yes, for years, and it still wasn't enough.
Her husband gaslit her, medicated her, turned her children against her, befriended her attacker and welcomed him into their home, even went into business with him - we hate him, he's a fucker.
But what hurt more was her book club, her friends, the ones she entrusted with her fears? They called her crazy, abandoned her, and left her alone at the hands of something so much bigger than herself.
"Patricia," Grace said, speaking slowly. "If you could hear yourself you'd feel terribly embarrassed."
"What if I'm right?" Patricia said. "And he's out there giving drugs to these children and we're too scared of being embarrassed to do anything? It could be our children. Think about how many young women would still be alive today if people hadn't taken Ted Bundy at face value and started asking questions earlier. Think if Ann Rule had put the pieces together sooner. How many lives could she have saved? I mean, you have to agree, something strange is going on here."
"No, we don't," Grace said.
"Something strange is going on," Patricia continued. "Children in first grade are killing themselves. I got attacked in my own yard. Mrs. Savage has the same mark on her body Destiny Taylor did. Francine is missing. In every book we read, no one ever thought anything bad was happening until it was too late. This is where we live, it's where our children live, it's our home. Don't you want to do absolutely everything you can to keep it safe?"
[...]
Grace stood up. "I value our friendship, Patricia," she said. "And I am ready to be your friend when you come back to your sense. But anyone catering to this delusion is not being helpful."
I'm positive this happens to many women, too many, and it should be documented, but not in a book about fucking vampires.
Not in fantasy, in fiction, a place where for once women can literally change the narrative.
Thefucking audacity of Hendrix to write a novel that is essentially a feminist pat on the head, when it should have been a celebration of the way women stick together, a battle cry of their strength, loyalty and support.
Thefucking audacity to make women your subject and fundamentally misunderstand how they behave towards each other.
Thefucking audacity to write about housewives and provide them with no inner life, portray them as nothing more than their title, caricaturise them and force them into making stupid, uninformed decisions.
Must every woman in horror run up the fucking stairs?
Is that all we're allowed to be, even in a novel that falsely pleads with the audience that we're better than that?
Must we only be vessels for male depravity?
Must we always be raped?
This is the main reason I'm so furious at this novel and Hendrix: the over-sexualisation of every woman in the story, the sexual abuse of varying sorts done to multiple female characters (of all ages), and the wholly unnecessary sexual assault of a main character.
It's makes me so fucking angry that, in mainly male-written fiction, the rape of women is used so consistently, almost gleefully.
That it's used at all.
As if it isn't a horrifying enough reality for women already, to have it used as a constant threat in fiction is so malignant it makes my skin crawl.
It's an absolute deal-breaker for me; as soon as I read the scene this takes place in, I knew I was done with this book, there was no coming back from that.
(And there really wasn't BECAUSE HENDRIX FUCKING KILLS HER IN THE END. It wasn't enough to rob her of her bodily autonomy, infect her with a curse she didn't ask for, and slowly, painfully break her body down until she finally turns, she has to choose to be cremated so she doesn't come back. And I say choose, but really, HER RAPIST made the choice for her when he held her down and violated her. Fuck you for this, Hendrix. Really nice feminist mindset you've got there of GIVING WOMEN NO FUCKING CHOICE)
If this is the only way you can write horror, the only way out of a whole imagination's worth of ideas to scare your readership (and this is a book advertised unapologetically at female readers), then - I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not - you're just yet another lazy, misogynist author to add the long list of lazy, misogynist authors.
Women are meat, they must be put in their place.
...
FUCK.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
This is why I fully believe that ninety five percent of men are shit at writing women and should not be allowed to do it.
There, I said it, and I fucking meant it, because I've yet to read a male-written female character who isn't hyper-sexualised, demeaned, robbed of brain cells, violated, belittled, etc., etc., ad fucking infinitum.
Somewhere, out in the literary ether, there will be richly detailed, layered female character, with depth and nuance, and they will have been written by men.
I'm sure of it.
But I doubt I'll find them in horror.
This genre is just rife with misogynist bullshit and that's part of the reason I don't read it very often.
Why would I put myself through it?
Why would I poison my brain with it?
And that's exactly how I feel after finishing this story: poisoned, blighted, dirtied, when it should be the exact opposite.
The only thing this bloody story got right was showing how women deal with this crap behind the scenes, getting shit done and out of sight of their oppressors because god forbid they be capable.
History is a commentary on the various and continuing incapabilities of men. What is history? History is women following behind with the bucket.
No truer words said.
Does that make it better? Never. Not for a moment. And Hendrix's failure to provide the satisfaction, the deserved vindication, of women coming together, solving a problem and then having their success acknowledged, appreciated makes the story an even greater slight against us.
Not only does the book fail to appreciate the complexity of women, it simultaneously undermines their victory.
...
My sighing is getting out of control at this point. This entire review is just one giant fucking sigh.
I had such high hopes for TSBCGtSV, for what it could stand for, for how it could champion women, shake off a little of the housewife stereotype, and let them fuck a vampire up and it be as campy and hairsprayed as I expect all things 80s to be.
And it was in some ways, it did have that hokey, creepy vibe I require from the genre, and there were whole entanglements of words that got what should have been the meaning of the story absolutely right, that knocked the proverbial stake in the undead aorta.
"We're a book club, not a bunch of detectives. If he's so much stronger than us, this is futile."
"You think . . . we can't match him?" Slick asked from her bed. "I've had three children . . . And some man who's never felt . . . his baby crown is stronger than me? Is tougher than me? He thinks he's safe . . . because he thinks like you . . . He looks at Patricia and thinks we're all a bunch of Sunshine Suzies . . . He thinks we're what we look like on the outside: nice Southern ladies. Let me tell you something . . . there's nothing nice about Southern ladies."
Passages like that are why I thought this was going to be a five star read.
But it just fucked it all up by forgetting to be a book about women.
Normal, everyday, imperfect women fighting for their fucking lives.
We don't want to read stories about our stereotypes (at least not ones failing to flout them), about being assaulted, drugged and manipulated, unheard and unbelieved.
That's our reality, not our escape.
We, I, wanted what lives in my head rent free every time a man talks down to me, sniffs at my discomfort, disregards my abilities:
And instead I was delivered a very male book speaking for me, instead of to me.
I was looking for a scary book to read this month, and y'know what, I succeeded, because TSBCGtSV is so tone-deaf it's terrifying.
Again, I say:
The fucking audacity.
Ps. This whole book should have been from Mrs. Greene's perspective. End of.
Pps. The blatant racism within the book, hidden in plain sight as historical accuracy, is offensive and inexcusable, you can't cry but it happened! when your novel is about fucking vampires.
This isn't satire, it's just an excuse to be a prejudiced dick.
Ppps. Amazon's developing this into a tv series. Is it wrong to hope they can adapt it into the story I wanted before I read the damn thing? The war cry of rage against the Upir patriarchy I was so fucking hungry for?
...
*sigh*
.............................................
Let's kick things off with my queen, Rachel Maksy, and her epitomising how all us sweet creeps feel about spooky season:
Hocus Pocus is the best damn Halloween movie IN EXISTENCE (don't fight me on this, or I'll have to king-hit some sense into you with a festive gourd), and Disney took everything I love about it, and made it so fucking shiny that none of the wondrous grime remained.
...
THEY STOLE MY GRIME AND GAVE ME POLISH!
Those motherfuckers.
Excuse me while I rewatch the original for probably the fourth time this year and remember it for THE piece of spooky, cinematic decadence I know it to be.
Om-fucking-nom.
Bonus Fanart for the best part of the movie, the baby Sanderson Sisters:
I think... this is quite an alienating series unless you've read the comics.
I have (a long time ago), so the languid, meandering nature of the story wasn't a surprise to me, and neither was the dearth of blockbuster moments - something I think as a culture we've come expect. Blame Marvel.
It's meant to be a slow ride, like, well, a dream.
The show nailed that, from the casting (Gwendoline Christie as Lucifer is just... *mwah*), the art direction, the score, to the vignette-style episodes, it epitomised the nature of The Sandman.
But even for me, who was expecting it, I would've preferred a slightly swifter pace at times.
Less Morpheus being a sad, broody emo entity (I do mean less, not at all; I love his emo-brat ways), and more kicking the shit out of aka. flirting, with his nightmares.
Corinthian, be still my chomping heart.
I do have to give props to the creators for the bonus final episode, though, because it was perfect.
So involving, so goddamn dreamy, and it left me feverish for the next season.
This was a separate idea but I'll add it here because it too takes place at Hob's. It's kind of OOC Dream (...?) but I had the image in my head so I had to draw it because *I can*. pic.twitter.com/JeaVuoztYc
This did not hold back; I knew it was going to be darkly comical in that classically British sense, but I didn't think it'd stick a hand in your chest and do a little finger wiggle.
Lena feels every muscle tense as she watches something begin to push its way through the open fold in the president-elect's shirt. She squints, wanting to close her eyes, every horrific thing she's witnessed since coming to work for Sin du Jour flashing through her mind all at once.
The thing forces its way out of the president-elect's body, through his buttoned shirt, and unfurls down his body.
Lena prepares to look away, jaw clenched, but she stops.
It's a ladder.
It's a tiny rope ladder.
Lena is now squinting in confusion rather than horror or terror. There is simply no denying the fact that a miniature rope ladder has been deployed from inside the president-elect's shirt, and is now hanging down to his knees.
It's somehow far less shocking when the little green creature crawls out through the president-elect's shirt and begins descending the ladder, making a noise that sounds to Lena like an old man forced to traverse a flight of stairs.
[...]
The creature is to to three feet tall, bipedal, and has the face of a French bulldog without the charm or humanity. Its skin is dry and cracked, and its color has the dusty, faded appearance of once-vibrant paint long dried. It leaps from the last rung of the ladder and hits the ground with a triumphant hoot.
I'm convinced at this point that Matt Wallace is just revealing state secrets book by book.
(Because come on, they're too fucking sensational to be real. Plus, I like to think Bowie didn't in fact die, but simply returned to his kingdom)
Until: The infamous former pres (and the rest of the cabinet) is actually a walking meat-sack with a little, green gremlin controlling him from the inside?
...
Absolutely. One thousand percent. I'd bet my book collection on it.
This is the realist shit ever committed to print.
Good sir Wallace, where are you getting your information?
Roswell?
Mulder?
Ps. And did you just kill my ship dead?
Like... no coming back from it, do not resuscitate, not even a return-of-the-zombie-love-affair kinda deal dead?
Did that really just happen?
...
I'm so used to my ships sailing, this genuinely stunned me for a second.
And then I made it worse by accidentally spoiling myself by looking for hints via Reddit and discovering something infinitely more devastating.
...
I am a stupid goblin woman, what did I think was going to happen, somebody pass the tissues.
I have neither three hundred dollars to spare, nor the most likely equal shipping cost, PLUS potential custom fees to fulfil my unholy need for one of these mugs.
/cdn.vox-cdn.com/uploads/chorus_image/image/71329988/Bee_and_PuppyCat_S1_E7_00_06_17_10.0.jpg)
![#[rosaline] from megan's moosings](https://64.media.tumblr.com/763cd64eeb7a2b4abc1c1a4b09dcc3b0/80fcf07610ba1f65-08/s540x810/a293aef84d314475457b60390eacabc44b8a7922.gifv)
Social Icons