#and as soon as that fucker dies i am going to buy my own copy and watch it seven times in a row
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thanks @thehoneybeet for tagging me for COMFORT FILM. sadly this made me realize how rarely i re-watch my comfort films these days!
Annie (1982) THE movie i have seen probably more than any other in my life. I saw it in the theater when I was [age redacted], promptly decided I would move to NYC one day (AND I DID), told everyone I was an orphan, had extremely gay feelings about Pepper, was afraid to accidentally swallow bathtub water for my entire childhood due to fear of imbibing gin.
2. Fantastic Mr Fox (2009) my kids are both in slantwise ways named after this fim.
3. Princess Bride (1987) you already know it of course
4. True Stories (1986)
5. Some Like It Hot (1959)
6. Amélie (2001)
7. City of Lost Children (1995)
8. Kiki's Delivery Service (1989)
I have lost track of who has and who hasn't done this yet so tagging @goblinmatriarch @epitomereally @ladderofyears @otpcutie if you want to!
#comfort films#annie (1982)#fantastic mr fox (2009)#the princess bride (1987)#true stories (1986)#some like it hot (1959)#amélie (2001)#city of lost children (1995)#dishonorable mention to chinatown (1974) which is one of my favorite films of all time but i refuse to watch it now in any way#and as soon as that fucker dies i am going to buy my own copy and watch it seven times in a row
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Pathfinder
fucking idiots leaving a pathfider out on their own without any brutes
ohh youll be fine compass your the best you can get back to camp. you dont need any muscle
im gonna fuckin die i hate this i swear im gonna leave as soon as i can
pathfinding is a tough job once this reality went to shit people had to adapt and finding a safe way out of non euclidean space or get lost eternally. thats my job, i have to keep a map of the path and fold cubes of cubes in my head or everyone dies. cant quite explain it but some people can do it better than others and they are the ones who get to go explore, in todays case an abandoned school building that once i pass will lead back to camp. yeah fuckin why did they think i could do this shit by myself its clearly non euclidean and who knows
ah shit great just great fuckin hate this part of the job. senters are in the fuckin court yard
uggggggggggggh for those who are blessed with ignorance of senters let me be the baerer of nightmares. senters are an unholy chimera of dog, grub, spider, and seven year old human. they have the head shape of the dog but only the shape there are no eyes, ears, or fur the only remaining feature is the nose which is where the name comes from as they can find a sent better than any other horror. the true horror starts early with the mouth, one could be forgiven for thinkimg senters dont have one but thats cause they usually keep it closed. if they ever decide to open their maws, one you have gotten to close and should pray to any god you hope favors you and second you will see the skin about where a dog would have a mouth start to streach and tear like thin plastic. holes will form and strings of skin will streach from the bottom jaw to the top revealing rotting teeth that will never stop bitting until you are good and dead, if youre lucky. moving down you will find arms attached about the neck of the senter that are the size of a seven year old child that are used to grab and hold the poor soul as the senter eats them living or recently dead. the body is that of a grubs which will pulse with what is at best a heart beat and at worst someone who will be forgotten all to soon. the legs are thin and sleek, copied from a spider, and can carry the senter to where the nose points at near enough to 20 miles per hour if motivated. these are the fuckin things that are in my way
yaaay i get to cover myself in lavender perfume, which wouldn't be much of an issue so long as i didnt basically need to dump the whole bottle on myself. believe it or not someone can learn to hate the smell of lavender especially if when even you have to put it on you then need to walk past scores of hell spwan that want to eat you.
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck i hate thiiiis walking through a hoard of senters is scary as shit the fuckers are taller then i am and if just one gets too good of a sniff the rest will stampede in the same general direction
holy shit thank fuck once im past these doors i should be safe for a little bit. *deep inhale* *exhale*
f
u
c
k
they caught wind of my breath great just great okokok i got five minutes till they break the doors down
oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck
three lefts
third door open twice to a class room
count to 3
open a third time step into a new hallway
close door
flip a 180
walk through closed door
same hall way but now they have to find a different way here that should buy some time
locker g19 is bigger on the inside that sould be a good place to hide til the senters get bored
jesus fuckin christ god fuckin damn it
the tell tale sharp clicks of chitin of tile could be heard echoing in the hall along with the deep inhales of a senter trying to locate its prey
click
click
click
sniff
then the skin starts to tear as it opens its jaws
fuckin shit my heart beat is fuckin loud
click
click
click
goddamn that a strong organ its shaking my whole ass body jesus fuckin hell
click
click
click
ahhhh i can see it through the slits its right outside its right outside and it stoped
its head is swiveling from side to side still questing for my sent
badum
badum
badum
pleaseleave, pleaseleave, pleaseleave, pleaseleave
hooooooo fuuuuuck it moved on ooooooooh fuck why did they have to leave me alone aaaaaand now i have to stay here for another hour
then as soft as a lovers first questioning kiss i hear next to my ear
"Oh there you are"
#writing#writeblr#im so normal and totally like other girls#people got eateded#cw vore#maybe idk dudes got ate and i think i used the word undulating
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Death Awaits Us All (from 2016)
I wrote this around August 3-4 2016, for a lit blog that rejected it outright for its brutal honesty and horrific accuracy concerning what we were soon to see as the presidency of Donald (BAAAAARRRRRFFFF) Trump. Presented with minimal edits, I give you:
DEATH AWAITS US ALL...enjoy (or not, it’s your choice):
The rust monsters have sacked my brain. Writing anything creative is a near-impossible hateful sojourn through corridors of frustration. I was recently accosted by the corrosive evil of reorganizing a college level class in order to conform, at least in spirit, with the format of a dreadful textbook thrust upon me, like skin rot contracted from an outhouse in a leper colony. There’s no task as phony and unfulfilling and soulless as revising lecture notes. You can feel your creative juices drying up like a sun-blasted desert oasis. There goes another part of me I can never recapture. Pandora’s Box fits into the analogy somehow, but I am unable to weave it into the narrative adequately so I instead rely on brutal confessions of academically induced impotence, if there is such a condition, and if not let me self-diagnose as Patient Zero for a heretofore undiscovered malady.
Where was I?
Somewhere, out in the desert watching heatwaves rise up from boiling sands…painting a picture with a broken brush is no mean feat, but I think I have risen to the challenge. Rise…risen. Nope, still hopelessly ossified and amberized. I coined that word, I believe. Or I’d like to believe I coined it.
Pointless!
So I’ll conjure a point from nowhere: I was rereading Kurt Vonnegut’s A Man Without a Country, his last published work before succumbing to a head injury at the gruffly tender age of 84 (it was his opinion that old farts like himself had “just gotten here,” so he was therefore little more than a pup, and who am I to contradict a master?). The book, a glib examination of George W. Bush’s America, has aged more rapidly than Vonnegut’s cantankerous literary turns, hobbled in part by the limited scope of the subject, but in spite of that limitation, it ventures into less dated territory or at a minimum more open territory free of political intrigues anchored to that desolate era, and one of these vistas for free range thoughts was in the author’s note at the end in which Kurt mentions that he had recently bonded in a friendly manner, not a love interest mind you, with Ralph Steadman, the artist indelibly linked to Hunter S. Thompson, the late gonzo journalist who, in the context of this aside, had recently taken his life in 2005. And where in the fuck, you ask and rightfully so, is all this digressive bullshit headed? It’s headed toward one of those strange coincidences which plant the idea that perhaps coincidence is a term of art humans created to dismiss the only tangible proof of a higher power manipulating the strings of the world, for I had just received in the mail a copy of Ralph Steadman’s The Joke’s Over, with a forward by, of all people, Kurt Vonnegut. So when I read the passage about Steadman and Vonnegut acquainting, a series of events whose connective tissues were dark to me suddenly coalesced into a definitive line of causality. Kurt met Ralph, Ralph wrote a book, Kurt wrote the forward for the book.
Isn’t it amazing that two people I have admired from afar somehow interacted out of the blue and “cross-pollinated,” so to speak? How does that shit happen? It’s a small world doesn’t do it justice. Nor does that hideously saccharine shit of a song do justice to my ears, real or the virtual stereo in my head that blares it as punishment for writing this, or possibly for writing, period, why-oh-why did I ever travel down that path? it yells at me in a chorus of squeaky castrati frantic to know the whereabouts of their balls…sorry boys, but, snip, snip, all gone but for the empty skin pouch.
If any of this makes sense, I apologize. It was never my intention to impart wisdom. There are more than enough shit-bird seers and visionary with all the answers in the world for a million lifetimes. So I guess one more can’t hurt or at the worst can’t inflict more harm than has already been inflicted. Death by a million papercuts…which cut was the killing stroke, the first or the last or one of the ones somewhere in the middle? Don’t answer that. Only a real asshole thinks he can answer the unanswerable.
Trump.
Balls, I’ve been tap dancing around the proverbial elephant in the room, tap dancing around heaping mounds of elephant shit so pervasive and voluminous I am drowning it in. We all are. Fuck. I need respite from the ugliness or I’ll goddamn well explode. And we can’t have that, can we?
But beware! If you speak of the devil, he shall come forth to heed your call. And in line with that warning, just as I was resigned to submerging and drowning in the muddy trenches of the Trump travesty, some blasted interloper knocked on the rustic steel door I rely on as a barrier between myself and the cruel world beyond. A wave of dread crept up my spine. Dusk time visitations never go well. Could be the authorities paying a call to impart bad news or some Jesus hustler at the end of his shift off-loading surplus pamphlets on the house closest to the tax dodge. God, I hate those fuckers. They have a habit of ignoring the NO SOLICITORS sign taped to the glass. Perhaps a large billboard broadcasting I EXTERMINATE FUCKING JESUS FREAKS might get their attention. When I opened, I came face to face with a fresh brand of trouble: the new neighbors were stopping by, not to say hi, how’s it hangin’? boy it sure is hot and whatnot, but to raise unholy hell (vs holy hell) about ground ivy, a common broadleaf, encroaching on their newly sodded lawn.
My inner cynic lives for these moments, affirmations that people are the real hell on Earth, as they clearly intended to start a territorial dispute over a goddamn plant native to every square mile of land in the world’s innumerable temperate zones, which, as far as they were concerned, excluded their yard. My only recourse? Consult the local ordinances online. Damn them straight to hell, I thought, for I’d sworn to on everything that is holy in the ecumenical sense that I would NEVER EVER consult the local ordinances, out of respect for the fact that I don’t give a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut about local ordinances or other petty nonsense crafted by bureaucrats with measuring sticks, prepared to issue citations for overgrown lawns or minute infringements of sacred lot lines. This is the kind of meaningless tripe that sucks your life down the fucking drain, pisses away the hours and scours your nerves to raw fucking bloody pulpy scum. So it was with utter disdain that I broke this promise to the Powers That Don’t Give a Fuck and combed the local ordinance site, state of the art for 2008, and tracked down the arcane passage detailing what manner of flora presented a nuisance to the neighborhood and would bring the wrath of the gods down upon my head, and lo and behold ground ivy was not among the offending species of plants.
But the neighbors more or less told me as much when it was mentioned in passing that they had consulted the ordinances and were at a loss to find a passage with the clout to enforce their milquetoast suburban pursuit of a simplified, unstable, monochromatic, aesthetically drab and understated ecosystem aching to wither and die if a fucking drop of acrid dog piss falls on its tender shoots. I’m not eager to engage in a death struggle over botanical differences. However, people have died for lesser causes.
Trump.
Darkness descends. Evil abounds. Feet itch. Is there no one who can save us? Okay, there’s Hillary. I have confidence in her ability to topple the tyrannical Trumpenstein “turd tornado” (tip of the cap to Ben Shapiro for helping fulfill my alliteration quota for the month). But I cannot shake the creeping doom. It skulks the hallways of my mind. I hear the thundering hoof beats of the Apocalypse fast approaching. I see other horrifying apparitions that defy description. Lots of wriggling tentacles, gnarly horns shiny with the blood of the innocent, severed nipples—a bowl of them, sitting out like Halloween candy as demonic children (well, children) paw through them seeking the tastiest morsel of nipple flesh. Michael Phelps’s perfect swimmer-nipples figure into the picture, adding a certain glistering, chilling symmetry to an otherwise asymmetric tableau involving hell spawn hungry for nipples, and even more macabre, Halloween was EIGHT DAYS ago.
November 8th promises to be the premiere of a new mediocre, bound-to-disappoint horror flop from M. Night Shyamalan, THE TRUMPENING. Okay, that scared the shit of me. You see, a word I’m 99.9% sure I just made up was ALREADY IN MY GODDAMN SPELLCHECKER. Relax, damn it. There is a logical explanation. Right. Spellcheck for all capital letters, by default, is turned off, and I tend to eschew tinkering with default settings unless they really piss me off, which is harder than it seems. But ’tis the season for rampant, unchecked, unabated, relentless paranoia, and what concerns me most is that the second my new novella arrives on the scene in the fall, there won’t be anybody to buy it. Apocalyptic settings dampen book sales almost as much as the very concept of a book does. Past authors and critics have predicted the end of the novel as an art form, and they were wrong, but their inaccuracy was a matter of poor timing not poor judgment. It is dead, and we killed it, and I cannot envision a novella, even a competently written one with an occasional dash of brilliance, resurrecting the dust and bones of the theater of the imagination. We are adrift in the briny wastes of instant entertainment gratification, and never again shall we touch the shores of useless art made beautiful by intense admiration.
I only wax poetically against my own interests because I am congenitally unable to believe in karmic justice. Karmic injustices proliferate with the ease of ground ivy, and unlike a relatively innocuous plant they swallow everything in their path. Take the savagely unjust conviction of five boys (four African Americans and one Hispanic) railroaded in 1990 for raping, beating, and sodomizing a female jogger in Central Park. After languishing in prison for 6-13 years as sex offenders, exculpatory evidence exonerated The Five of any wrongdoing (a serial rapist serving life in prison confessed to the crime, which led to a round of DNA tests, and none of The Five’s DNA was extant at the crime scene). And who shelled out an estimated $85,000 for full page ads in all four major New York newspapers urging the reinstatement of the death penalty, citing the Central Park assault as just cause and inflaming prejudice against the defendants before the case had been tried?
Trump.
Karma is officially deader than Vaudeville, deader than Caesar, deader than analogies in the “deader than” form. For a “law and order” candidate, Trump has a penchant for viewing mob rule as a functional arm of the Constitution. Deferring to the wisdom of “2nd Amendment people” to prevent Hillary from appointing judges belongs to the white-lighting-fueled ruminations of Tennessee moonshiners vigilant and on the eye for “revenuers” and “guvment men” and cannot be tolerated as just a bit of harmless bluster on the campaign trail, even if the candidate in question is a bloviating armchair politician with the discipline of a baboon wildly masturbating between salvos of shit-flinging.
I could go on and on about the other five billion instances in which Trump comported himself with the aplomb of a one-legged, one-armed, one-eyed lemur performing open heart surgery with a broken whiskey bottle. But when for the love of Zod does it fucking come to a satisfactory conclusion?
November 8th.
I hope?
No, hope doesn’t factor into it. Or faith. Or other invisible forces of the universe. It all teeters on the electorate getting off its asses and voting for Hillary. Every stay at home vote is a vote for Trump. Every vote for Lexus-liberal, vaccine-doubter Jill Stein is a vote for Trump. Every disgruntled Millennial write-in vote for Bernie Sanders is a vote for Trump. But it’s possible every vote for Gary Johnson is a vote for Hillary. Libertarians exist in a kind of pseudo-Republican limbo populated with potheads who bawl for small guvment between bong hits. Trump’s xenophobic, bigoted rhetoric loses its shine once the pot haze clears a skosh and it dawns on them that their dealer, Raul, is a Cuban/Mexican cross-dresser with a lapsed green card, and their backup plan, Timmy the Titwillow, is a gay bartender at a nightclub six blocks from the Pulse massacre.
Never underestimate the influence of self-interest in the electorate. Or for that matter self-deceit.
For as long as Trump is in the race he has a chance of winning, however remote, and we could be living the last fruitful days before a literal madman takes control of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. If things should take a turn for the worst on Election Day, our only chance for a temporary reprieve from utter annihilation is to pray that that twisted septuagenarian imbecile can come to some kind of arrangement with Ivanka to stick his thrombosis-savaged pecker insider her every Sunday on an onyx altar carved in the image of the Great Old Ones. But given the obviously degenerated state of his body, it’s doubtful even an overdose of boner pills could conjure anything remotely resembling an erection, perhaps a tiny bubble filled with pus and blood and shattered pieces of dick vein floating around in the mucosal soup.
But I kid our future overlord. All in good fun and jest. Lucky for me, the dark, dank confines of a North Dakota gulag are a rich source of inspiration. Besides, I could use a change of setting. A place where I can write the last and greatest Great American novel before the steepening decline of the written word smashes into history’s wall. And upon that wall there is inscribed but a single word:
TRUMP
For the record: damn, was I spot on to worry! And I nailed the culprits of this fucking nightmare, less the Russian collusion, Who could have seen that coming, besides
HILLARY?
Right?
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