Women, so pretty, so shaped, i am so lesbian,,,

an angle i enjoy in cosmic/eldritch horror is when, instead resorting to the old classic "the horrors being so incomprehensible that they break your brain and drive you mad" cliché, the premise is that in comprehending the horrors you are so changed by the experience that your new state is indistinguishable to an outside observer from madness. you comprehend the unknowable just fine, but actually communicating that to anyone else is impossible because they just don't have the mental framework required to understand it. the eldritch horrors don't drive you mad. what does is the ordinary everyday horror of finding yourself isolated, ridiculed and doubted at every turn, no matter how hard you try to make yourself heard and understood.

Do you guys notice how when Shawn Fain, president of the United Auto Workers union, started planning a general strike, he did it by a) targeting his messaging towards unions with the ability to safely and effectively strike in large numbers, b) laid out a clear, actionable plan for those unions to follow (setting contracts to all expire at the same time, since many unions cannot strike while under contract), c) is using union contracts to set clear, actionable demands that can be met in order to gauge success and provide an end goal, and d) started organizing FOUR YEARS before the proposed strike date to give people the chance to plan accordingly, because it takes a really freaking long time to get tens of millions of people organized?

You notice how he didn't do it by slapping a message on Twitter saying 'hey nobody go to work on Monday, that'll really show 'em'?

Deep down, FNAF movie Vanessa and Michael are siblings

I desperately hope they keep the detail of sally selling Gabe’s statue because there is something so hilarious about that woman opening her front door, seeing that her ex-husband has been Medusa-ed, and going “you know I think he’d look nice at an art gallery”

It’d also be one hell of a divorce settlement and that’s what she deserves

some people are truly off their rocker and i don't want to attribute it solely to shit i see on twitter bc I've heard this irl a few times these past couple of weeks but i did see someone on twitter today questioning why Palestinians have children... why the fuck not? these children are the hope for a better future; they're the continuation of aeons old bloodlines; parents have a right to have kids even under apartheid. what your question suggests is nothing short of eugenics imho and truly completely disconnected from the humanity of Palestinians and their rights to full, dignified lives with choices and possibilities. like imagine being pro-choice until one of these choices is "can i have a child if my people are being ethnically cleansed". so long as there is life there is hope and that isn't just a trite little saying it's a way of existing and resisting.

Basically, my philosophy around disability fakers is: I would rather a thousand people fake a disability than have one disabled person suffer without care, aids, compassion, or any help.

John Dory and Branch

POV: you're Sokka and you're desperately trying to get to know the cute emo linecook from the restaurant next door but whenever he's on smokebreak his greasy stoner boyfriend is also there.

"...I appreciate that you're trying to be on my side." "I am on your side."

BONUS REACTIONS:

Bored out of their minds waiting for the helo

I would very much like to see the rest of Brozone meeting Cloud Guy

they fear him

do you think the obsession with ‘style consistency’ in online art communities is mostly caused by this idea that your art style needs to be easily marketable & recognizable as a brand (especially when you’re working as a freelancer). i see the /least/ amount of progress in my art whenever i try to aim for style consistency. i don’t know exactly where i’m going with this but i think there’s some sort of connection between trying to monetize/market your art & limiting your growth as an artist. and i think it’s very sad.

Grian had taken her aside quietly. He'd awkwardly talked around the idea of her remembering now; apparently, he didn't know if her victory counted. She'd rubbed the back of her head and hadn't quite realized what he was talking about and said something about the games and, ah. Apparently she does remember now. Apparently the victory counts. Apparently this means he needs to say sorry.

Cleo considers not accepting the apology. Grian would get the wrong idea then. If she said: you don't need to apologize for shit, or maybe, there's nothing to apologize for, he'd take that as: you are exactly as bad as you're convinced you are. Honestly, Cleo's not sure whether that means Grian would decide he'd done nothing wrong or everything, but that's besides the point.

She'd never not remembered, is the point.

Frankly, Cleo hadn't realized people were meant to be not remembering. She's honestly a bit embarrassed not to have figured it out. Surely that can't be right. Cleo has held every single slight and every single ally and every single person she has ever connected to right in her ribcage, next to where her carved-out, unbeating, torn-up heart lies, the entire time these games have gone on. Each game, a new fact carved into the bone that makes them up.

Names ribbon around her memories. Bdubs and the Crastle and Scott and soulmates and Pearl and friend-turned-foe and Etho and survivor and Bigb and traitor and Scar and son and everything else. She wouldn't be the same at all if she didn't remember. Everything she is, it's built on top of everyone that was.

Maybe it's a zombie thing. The undead are said to be memories that can't fade as much as anything else, after all.

But she can't really explain this to Grian, of course. If nothing else, that would require explaining the place he's taken next to her heart, too, and frankly, that's way too mushy for the both of them. What ends up coming out her mouth is: "Oh. Does that really change anything?"

Grian stares at her a moment.

"You know, I guess not?" he says.

"Right then," Cleo says. "Cool. Good to know my victory means nothing then."

Grian squawks. "You can't just say it like that! That's depressing!"

Good enough.

She buries 'not-supposed-to-remember' 'not-sure-if-it-counts' 'laughing-as-scott-dies' and 'I-have-always remembered' in the same place in her ribcage, so she won't forget it, and then she does the thing that sets her apart from the common zombie:

She moves on.

desire to draw raz's hair unhatted and uncombed spiraled into imagining an extended gag about some emergency situation forcing all of the psychonauts out of the motherlobe into the quarry in their jammies at like 2 am and judging each other's clothing choices instead of getting actual work done.

One thing that was really driven home for me this season was how much power Crowley has. How much influence.

To recap:

Shax, despite hating him and being his literal replacement, is constantly asking him for advice and help.

Furfur comes to the magic show in 1941 to arrest him and Crowley, like, laughs at him and goes back to sleep. "We shant, this is ridiculous."

In a room (the bookshop) with both Heaven and Hell's top brass, somehow Crowley was in charge of that meeting.

Both Furfur and Saraqael really really wanted him to remember working with them.

The Metatron knew he had to separate Aziraphale from Crowley in order to effectively manipulate him.

Like. He's unafilliated from both Heaven and Hell at this point, everyone (but Aziraphale) hates him, and yet people listen when he talks. People do what he says. It's incredible.