honeysucklebuttons
you are enough
there is good to be found
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we just keep naming bugs like this
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New bugs, this time from Hoenn!
Available as prints and other merch formats!
Patreon • Ko-fi • Facebook • Twitter • Prints & Merch
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doing my duty of drawing skeleton falin
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What’s your favourite line from good omens?
The invisible and unbreakable one that joins Crowley and Aziraphale.
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Many years ago, I was wandering around downtown Ottawa with my best friend. We ran into a friend of his who offered us some hash (it sucked), then said there was a really good house party nearby if we wanted to go. We were like, yeah, sure. So that's how we ended up at some completely fucking random person's house.
I look around to ask if my friend knows anyone here and he's simply gone, as is his friend. And this isn't some red solo cup hangout; this is a party. There's people counting out pills on the kitchen counter. I am clearly neither as cool nor as drug-savvy as the kitchen people, so I back away and instead wander aimlessly into the living room, which seems to give off more of a chill vibe.
A bunch of people are seated in a circle on the floor. One of them is fiddling with a big wad of newspaper or something. A really cute grunge girl with piercings and tattoos scoots aside to make room for me, so I sit down.
"What's that," I ask her, gesturing at the newspaper wad.
She gets a really big smile on her face. You know the smile. It's the I'm About To Watch This Innocent Soul Get High As Fuck smile. "You've never smoked a tulip?"
"What's a tulip?" I ask.
"It's like if a joint was also a bong," she replies. "You gotta try it."
"Alright," I reply, a little uncertainly. This will not be my first encounter with weed. I am more comfortable with the janky newspaper bong than I am with whatever the fuck is going on in the kitchen. Besides, this girl is really cute and I would like to have a friend here now that my existing friend has turned into vapor or been transported to the Upside-Down or whatever the hell happened to him.
I watch as one person holds the newspaper joint-bong upright and holds a lighter over the top while another gets beneath it, tilting their head back to take a puff. Apparently smoking this Cheech & Chong monstrosity is a two-person job.
"Oh," I say, looking at the fist-sized knob at the top of the wonky newspaper joint. "Yeah, it does kinda look like a tulip." Grunge girl smiles at me.
I watch as the tulip is passed around the circle, along with the lighter, and hits are cooperatively taken. It reaches grunge girl, who takes a huge puff and holds it for an extended moment before exhaling an impressive blast of smoke. She smiles expectantly and holds the tulip up for me, preparing to spark the gigantic meteor of dank that makes up its tip. By this point I have completely forgotten about my missing friend. I only care about making a good impression on grunge girl. I tilt my head back and hit the tulip like a smokestack.
It is the following morning. I am sleeping between a couch and a wall. I'm not positive that this is the same house I was just in. My memories are gone. Someone is yelling at me: "dude! Dude! Wake up, dude!"
I sit up. My mouth tastes like cigarettes. I do not smoke cigarettes. "Wha," I ask the yelling man, who I am quite confident I have never met before in my life.
"We're going on a quest," he tells me, gravely. "You have to come with us."
I look around. Neither my friend nor his friend are anywhere in sight. I also do not see grunge girl anywhere. I shrug helplessly. "Okay."
We embark from this house. I learn that the destination of this quest is Tim Horton's. This is a relief to me, as coffee and a donut sounds really fucking good right now. Somehow, the route to Tim Horton's takes us past the Governor-General's residence, which everyone else in the group loudly heckles on the way past. I do not know what the Governor-General has done to raise their ire, nor do I particularly care. I trudge along with my hands in my pockets, pleased to note that I still have my wallet, phone, and keys. I fervently wish that I could remember anything about last night. Maybe I talked to grunge girl. Maybe she's why my mouth tastes like cigarettes. The tulip tasted nothing like cigarettes.
I am asked about my politics. I voice my frustrations with corporate corruption, the pay-to-win electoral system, the lack of transparency and accountability. This is met with great approval. The guy who was yelling at me claps me on the back. I get the impression that we became friends last night. I don't recognize his face. I do not know his name and he definitely does not know mine. I behave as though we're friends anyway. We are comrades on a quest.
By the time we make it to Tim Hortons, the gaggle of stoners I'm walking with have all run out of energy and/or attention span. People order snacks and break away in pairs or solo, to call for rides or plan the day's events or just vegetate and wait for the drugs to leave their systems. I look around and find that my nameless friend has also gone to the Upside-Down. As I wash the cigarette taste out of my mouth with coffee, I unsuccessfully try to remember whether I saw grunge girl smoking tobacco at any point. I remember nothing. That tulip was so fucking powerful that it instantly sent me a whole day forward in time.
Alone in the city, I try to call my best friend and get no answer. I walk to the nearest bus stop, catch a bus most of the way home, and call up my parents to ask for a ride back. They ask where my friend is. I tell them that I have no idea; we went to a house party and I don't remember anything else.
When they pick me up from the bus station, they ask me some very safe, nonspecific questions, and seem to relax when I describe what little I can remember. It isn't until years later that I realize they were probably terrified I'd gotten rufied or something, and were so relieved to learn otherwise that they didn't even bother chiding me for smoking myself unconscious in an effort to impress a strange woman. In any case, they were probably happy to find out that I did, in fact, like girls; I suspect they had been privately wondering whether I was gay.
After getting home, I finally manage to get my best friend to answer his phone. I discover that he tried the kitchen pills, spent most of the night crossing the entire city on foot, and crashed at his cousin's house. He sounds like shit. I tell him that he should have tried the tulip, instead. He fervently agrees with me.
I never see grunge girl again.
That's okay, though. She got to see a clueless stranger get fucked the entire way up on some ungodly strain of giga-weed, and I got smiled at by a cute girl, and then I got to go on a quest. Wherever grunge girl is, I hope she's happy. I hope she's smoking the fattest fucking blunt and smiling as some kid passes out behind a couch.
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I did a google search and it said that you invented death??? is this true?
It is true.
Long ago, people lived forever, and when they were done with everything they had wanted to do, they would take a bus to Bognor Regis, on the English south coast, and sleep in small seaside bed and breakfast hotels. They would spend the days walking along the seafront, possibly crunching along the shingle. Hundreds of them to begin with, but eventually millions, and then millions of millions. Needless to say, Bognor Regis became uncomfortably crowded, and there was nowhere to buy an ice cream or even a postcard. All of the Bed and Breakfasts had “No Vacancies” signs up.
I was only a boy, but I could see that this was untenable. “What if,” I suggested, “We make it so that instead of going to Bognor by bus, people who have finished just stop existing, and rot down. And what if we make it so it’s always been like this?”
“You are seven years old,” they said to me. “It will be many years before you take the bus to Bognor. Why do you let this bother you?”
“Because this is not tenable,” I told them. It was a big word I was proud of knowing and I used it whenever I could. “By that time the town will be so full that I will have to sleep on the pebbled beach at night, or even in the road. It will not be a good thing.”
I showed them my drawings, which included suggestions for how death would work, and stressed that for it to be successful it would also need to apply to everything else as well. Not just people.
“Even cats?” they asked.
“Even cats,” I told them.
“The cats won’t like that,” they said. But the cats thought it was going to be great, and explained to us that they had plans for the mice and the birds under the proposed system, and my invention caught on. These days almost nobody remembers what it was like before.
...
Also, there’s a character called Death in SANDMAN. I made her up, and Mike Dringenberg made up the way that she looks.
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i have the opposite of that “everyone is an npc” mentality people have embraced where i’m instead like. the person next to me in line has someone they can’t wait to go home to, the person picking up their mail has felt devastation before, everyone in this grocery store is doing their sunday shopping, maybe the person that just honked at me is having the worst day of their life, my neighbor has doctors appointments and favorite foods and a song they can’t stand to hear anymore… you are all fully realized complex people and that is overwhelming me on a spiritual level…
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My body is a collection of all the parts that came before! 🌱🌱🌱
[Image ID: A drawing of a trans masculine person, nude except for underwear. The figure has top surgery scars, and no head, the bottom of a jaw bone with plants growing from it floating above the neck. There are flowers, mushrooms, and stars surrounding the figure, and a bird flying to the left of the canvas. /. End ID]
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Cubaris sp. Panda King, curled | micron pen, color pencils, and copic markers | March 2024 | Hazel Fricke
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i have been constantly in tears over this newly hatched duck i found on instagram last night
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