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girlwiththegreenhat · 4 years

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thoughts on ur favorite drink? ur favorite art program? thoughts on keeping a sketchbook? on any pets you have?

HELL yeah thanks for the ask i hope u like tangents on tangents and run on sentences because just like my blog description says, I Do Not Shut Up!

favorite type of drink: crystal pepsi

every fucking year i email the Bepsi company and ask when this god damn drink is coming back. last year? literally spent almost all of 2019 moving house, and i got no crystal pepsi anywhere in that time. now it’s 2020. there’s a plague. and the world is burning. and there’s still no fucking crystal pepsi. the moral of the story here is, as soon as pepsi brings back The Good Shit, everything can be nice again. i am .3 seconds away from breaking into pepsi HQ in the midst of this Rioting Chaos just to steal the Crystal Pepsi recipe from their fat stupid noses and start making it myself. I will market it as... Creestöl Bepsi.

oh wait im supposed to talk about the drink, right, shit’s good yo. you know how all clear sodas taste vaguely the same? they all taste like Clear Drink? this is like Clear Drink in it’s purest form. it is the Clearest Drink. with the most Clearest Drink taste. and thanks to it’s (formerly) limited annual runs at the end of summer it literally tastes like nostalgia. I have left the house like twice in the last three months but if they brought back crystal pepsi i would march out of my house like its on fire (wearing a mask of course) and buy every fucking bottle i could find, life savings be damned

so anyway yeah crystal pepsi’s good i guess

favorite art program: begrudgingly, photoshop

adobe may be a greedy bitch baby company who doesnt actually let you buy their software outright but damn,,, photoshop Nice,,, hehehehe,,, i can do so Much with it it’s such a multitool of a program,,, i just upgraded to the 2020 version in february and there’s SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO many more brushes than there were in the 2014 version, and most of them are actually really useful!! i’m living for this guy’s brushes, uh, kyle?? yeah, kyle t. webster. now THAT guy knows how to make some brushes. i’ve been using the same ones for like six years but he’s got this GORGEOUS lineart brush i’ve been using and dear god i love it too much to ever go back. I Will Never Go Back. AND I JUST FOUND OUT ABOUT LIKE, BLEND BRUSHES?? there are ones that perfectly emulate real pencils thanks to how photoshop handles brushes, it even wears out and widens with use (you can choose how fast...) and you can TILT your STYLUS to USE THE BROADER SIDE OF THE “LEAD”??? LIKE?? A REAL PENCIL???? still blows my mind,, photoshop’s brush engine is fucking amazing,,

Thoughts on keeping a sketchbook?

sketchbooks are great and i envy people who have those really nice, blank-page sketchbooks with the little rounded corners on each page? and they always fill them with studies and life drawings,,, its so Aesthetic,,,

meanwhile im adamant for some damn reason to do most of my drawings on lined paper still. not the serious ones, but if im doodling, or just doing a sketch i intend to finish in photoshop? composition notebook. i have Dozens of Actual sketchbooks, but those are so nice... i don’t want to fill them with stupid meme drawings and things i wont finish and things i draw Badly and things that i Will finish but not There. i’m glad im not going to college cuz i always hear “oh you have to submit your sketchbooks” im like haha What cuz my sketchbooks,,,, are probably some of the most unprofessional, badly organized, unfinished messes out there,,, like i do studies but it’s all on lined notebook paper and half-destroyed composition notebooks because at the end of 8th grade everyone was throwing out their unused or slightly used school supplies and there was a WHOLE RECYCLING BIN FULL OF COMPOSITION NOTEBOOKS?? MOST OF WHICH ONLY HAD THE FIRST LIKE 15 PAGES FILLED OUT IF THAT???? SO I JUST KINDA. RAIDED IT?? i havent bought lined paper in 8 years and all the school supplies i looted out of the garbage that day carried me all the way through high school. i bought maybe one notebook in highschool, that was it. i think i literally trash picked a lifetime of lined paper,,,

,,, anyway i have a Nice Sketchbook (no lined paper!) ive been toting around since sophomore year of high school. it’s still got printouts taped to it from supernatural and doctor who and black rock shooter. this was seven years ago, i still use it when i want to use Nice Paper, and only now am i approaching the last pages. i also have a separate sketchbook i decided to start using for concept art and sketches for my webcomic i will never actually start working on! that one’s about as professional as i get, it’s full of robot designs and sketches of scenes. its fun.

i am not a real artist aslkdfkljdfskjldsfkjl

Thoughts on any pets you have?

i love me pets! they are not my pets they are my parents pets but i take care of them more so who cares. i love them. i love all three doggos even if Gigi is an old lazy fart that doesn’t care about anything that isn’t sleeping, food, going outside, or bellyrubs. she doesn’t even listen to you if you call her or tell her to do something. i dont know what her deal is. and gemma!! is a depressed muppet. she’s probably just getting old herself even though she’s only,,, seven. we got a third dog and she never got over it. she is still my favorite though, she’s adorable and i love her little under bite and her big goofy eyes that don’t have a single thought or braincell behind them. she floofy and snuggley and a big ol scardey cat who always comes into my room for hours when there’s a Loud Sound outside which is great because i cant sleep when something else is alive in my room and its not me but whatever i cant say no to her, especially now that we’re both on the same floor and i would probably take a bullet for this funky lil fuzzball.

speaking of the third dog that is kiwi i post more pictures of her than anyone else for some reason but she’s a cute lil goblin. i mean what is this thing. what is it!! im not even entirely convinced its a dog, i think its a weird lil alien that knows what a dog looks like and that’s it

what is this thing!! dont know!! she’s plotting though!! i have never seen Thoughts happening in a dogs head before but she Knowes Things. she learned how to slap the other dogs. 80% of the time if you point a phone at her she stops moving because she somehow understands the concept of a “Camera.” she’s a little chaos bagel. a chaos bagel with a critical case of The Zoomies and a burning hatred of feet

we also have a budgie named olive. he’s pretty, but quiet

#liz blogs #ask meme #ask #serialsharkgay #ty for the ask... i love to ramble..... and i have So Many Thoughts All Of The Time.......#dogs #my dogs #long post #one day im going to edit tiny flames into kiwi's eyes because its funny #just get a gif of fire and photoshop it in there

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tessatechaitea · 4 years

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Darkstars #7

The "A"s in the logo have genitals.

In the 90s, comic book readers accepted that professional artists were now drawing like every kid in the 2nd grade. Not exactly, of course! I wouldn't want to be taken literal by everybody on the Internet who doesn't understand exaggeration and hyperbole. Unless the do understand it but they understand wanting to sound smarter than everybody else on the Internet so much that they can't understand whimsy and mockery. So the figures are drawn better than I could have done in 2nd grade. But I know every single time I drew something in 2nd grade, I'd misjudge perspective and depth. So after drawing the first guy (who I decided was standing in mist because I didn't want to draw his feet in that foreshortened way that feet need to be drawn but which is difficult to pull off), I'd begin drawing the second character. But at some point, I'd realize I'd gotten their proportions wrong and so I'd wind up making them stand in a hole in the ground. Then the third guy would look like he was floating so I'd draw a mound of dirt for him to stand on (and not stand on in the way we would see a person standing on dirt but standing directly on top of the horizontal line that was the top of the mound of dirt). Then I'd think, "Should they be standing in a city or a forest or a battle scene full of corpses?" But that thought would only lead to the thought, "No, that's too much work," and then I'd just sketch some lines for clouds or air movement or something and call it done. So, you know, just like this. Maybe I should have realized at the time that my 2nd grade style was the popular style because it is the only time I've ever had a work of art hung in a museum (the Triton Museum in Santa Clara)! Fuck, I missed my calling! I could have helped found Image Comics! This issue begins with an alien wearing a fart collector on his head.

The only reason you haven't seen me on Shark Tank with my Fart Collector is because I know what a fucking scam it is. Sure, you have to pay back loans if your business fails while investor money is free. But if your business is successful, the loan is eventually paid off while the investors stick around sucking off your profits until the day you die.

How do you know if you're good at poetry? Poems are like farts. Most people leave the room in order to avoid yours but they can't get enough of their own. The fart loving alien is some despot whose people have finally turned against him and hired an assassin to kill him. It's 1993 and Darkstars could sure use a bump in sales with a Lobo guest spot but I'm guessing it won't be Lobo because I'd fucking remember that. The poor despot. He's a terrible ruler who treats a certain segment of his population as not worthy of life and he longs for their love anyway. That's exactly the kind of leader who should be assassinated. I am now winking and nudging you with my elbow.

This is the exact face of every protagonist in every comic during Image's first year in business (except for the ones that were demons from Hell or had one mechanical eye).

Darkstar and Hawkman become best friends and promise to team up again in the future. Then he fucks off to go do whatever Hawkman did in Hawkworld. Fuck if I ever read that. Have I mentioned how much I don't like Hawkman? Or Green Arrow?! Or Hal Jordan? Or Superman? Maybe I should just list the DC heroes I like: Halo and Blue Devil. The fart-sucking despot faces his assassin and of course it's not Lobo. Judging by the 90s Image look, his name is probably DeathDie or Crushblow or DeadBlast or PunchAbort.

Did all 90s artists design new villains using the same standard template?

The assassin's name is K'lassh. Yeah, two S's instead of two A's. It's an alien tongue. It probably means "He Who Sucks The Entrails Out of a Rabbit's Asshole and Fucks the Corpse." Now it's time for more art because holy fuck is it terrible. But it's terrible in that exactly specific way that comic book readers were blind to in the 90s. In the 90s, this art was fucking radical, dude.

Part of me gets it. Part of me thinks, "Whoa! That art is fucking dynamic and bad ass!" But that's also the part of me that smells my finger after it breaks through the toilet paper while wiping my ass.

Flint quits his job as deputy Darkstar before Darkstar can even yell at him. Then he's all, "I'm just like you!" And Darkstar flies off thinking, "Yeah! He is just like me! I bet we'll be good friends in a few more issues!" The next issue is the last one I own so I hope I never see that asshole cop again. Sorry to be redundant. The story of K'lassh killing alien Trump was told so that by the end of this story, when the drug runners bring K'lassh to Earth to battle Darkstar, we, the readers, will be shitting in our pants thinking, "Oh no! That guy is really powerful! Darkstar is in trouble now!" Or we laughed at loud at the stupid costume and name and stopped buying the comic book forever. Darkstars #7 Rating: C. I think seven issues of any mediocre comic book is just too many to read without another series to break up the space monotony. And I've still got one more! But after this, I'll be done with this box of old comic books! I don't know how long I've been re-reading my old comic books but I think it's been a few years now. And I've just finished the first box. Granted it wasn't a long box or a short box; it was a big old fruit box. So there were a lot of comic books in it! I can't wait to see what comic books await me in the next box I open! But whatever series winds up being in that box, I think I need to alternate titles to keep myself interested. I'll figure it out when I get there. In the meantime, how about buying my Role Playing Game, Places & Predators? I know Amazon sucks. If you're ideals mean more to you than buying my hilarious and fun game, you can always Venmo $3.00 to GrunionGuy and I'll send you a PDF.

#Darkstars #Travis Charest #Michael Jan Friedman #DC COmics #DC #Scott Hanna

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piccolina-mina · 5 years

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Pod Squad & Friends on Movie Night

Max [shoving Michael's feet off of the coffee table]: I still don't know why we always have to do it here.

Michael [taking a swig of beer and placing the bottle 5 inches away from the coaster Max set out for him]: You have the nicest place.

Max [placing Michael's bottle on the coaster]: Kyle has a nice place.

Kyle: Like hell am I letting all of you anywhere near my apartment.

Isobel: I used to have a nice place.

Rosa: Really? I used to be dead.

Liz: Alright, so no movies about resurrection then.

Rosa [smiles at Max "sweetly"]: Damn. I was going to suggest The Passion of the Christ.

Alex: *snorts*

Liz: Please don't encourage her. OK, and definitely no --

Everyone: No aliens!

Isobel: Shame though. I was going to suggest Independence Day.

Everyone: *glares*

Isobel: I meant the recent one. Rosa hasn't seen it yet. Touchy.

Max: I was thinking -

Alex: Aw hell. Here we go.

Kyle: Max, buddy. Maybe we should lay off of the, uh --

Rosa: Look, Alien Jesus. No one is sitting through Sense and Sensibility again.

Alex: Or any rendition of Pride and Prejudice, man.

Liz [hesitantly]: Or My Fair Lady.

Max [affronted]: I was ... *mumbles* going to say Pretty Woman.

Isobel: I can watch Pretty Woman! Richard Gere and Julia Roberts? So much eye candy.

Michael: I mean, fair, but no. No more chick flicks.

Max: Not even Hallmark movies?

Kyle: You will not make me sit through that drivel. I refuse.

Maria, Liz, Max: Hey! Wait a minute! Now, hold on a second ...

Isobel: Fine. Let's just watch one of those stupid superhero movies. Spiderman or something.

Kyle: Yeah, Spiderman! That's ... that's good.

Alex *dubious*: Is it Kyle? Which Spiderman?

Kyle: Um, Tom ...

Alex *perks up*: Yeah?

Kyle: MaGuire?

Alex: Seriously? You're f**cking hopeless. We're talking about this later.

Max: Spiderman Into the Universe was a fantastic film.

Everyone: *looks at Max surprised*

Max: What?

Alex: Finally, someone with taste.

Maria: Tobey MaGuire was a cute spiderman. I like those ones.

Alex: What? Everyone knows Tom Holland is the superior Spiderman!

Rosa: Spiderboy maybe.

Alex: *growls*

Rosa: The kid is, like, ten.

Alex: So are you!

Michael *eating all the popcorn that has since gone cold*: Maybe we don't need a movie tonight. This is pretty damn entertaining.

Maria *steals the bowl of popcorn*: Wakanda forever!

Kyle: Wait, I feel like I'm supposed to know that one.

Isobel: Is it a foreign film? I love foreign films. We need to watch more of those.

Maria *blinks*: Goddess, I need more black friends.

Rosa *mumbles*: I don't disagree.

Alex *snags a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Maria's lap*: I told you. Lost causes. We'll watch Black Panther again later.

Isobel *ignoring all of them*: Run Lola Run is a masterpiece.

Liz: It is a masterful film.

Max *raises hand sheepishly*: I vote for that.

Michael *rolls eyes*: Of course you do.

Max *slowly puts hand down and sighs*: I'm going to find more snacks then.

Michael *calls out*: By the way, you need to restock those pizza things. Oh, and the TV dinners. Oh yeah, and I think I ate the last bag of potato chips, but can you not get kettle chips next time?

Max: *gives Michael a dirty and rants about the grocery costs*

Alex: If we're watching Run Lola Run, then we're watching Star Wars next time. It's only fair.

Rosa *sighs*: I'm surrounded by dorks. I can't keep doing this. How about a comedy?

Michael: Now you're speaking my language. How about -

Maria: Guerin, I'm not sitting though another film with Adam Sandler. It's not gonna happen.

Michael: Chill, DeLuca, I was going to say --

Liz: No Will Ferrell either, Mikey. Fart jokes and *gestures* middle school boy humor is not funny. Sorry.

Kyle: Wait, the brillo pad may be on to something.

Michael: *flips Kyle the bird, levitates Kyle's last chip into his mouth, and smirks at an annoyed Kyle*

Isobel: I actually agree with Liz here. Juvenile humor isn't funny.

Michael *grumbles*: Killjoys.

Rosa [under her breath]: Interesting choice of words.

Alex *chuckles*: You're on fire today.

Rosa: Funny you should say that--

Kyle: Anyway, I'm thinking action here, guys. It's the easiest and most agreeable option.

Alex: Shocker. You're always thinking action.

Isobel: Kyle, I don't care how distracting your face is, you will not convince me to sit through the entire Fast and Furious series. Why the f**k are there so many movies anyway? I swear if I have to watch one more I'm going to kil-

Rosa: *raises her brow*

Isobel: Kick somebody's ass!

Kyle: How about Creed?

Maria: You had me at Michael B Jordan.

Rosa: Tessa Thompson.

Michael: Sly Stallone.... I mean, because he's a living legend.

Isobel: If I wanted to watch sweaty guys pummeling each other, I would go out drinking with Michael at the Wild Pony.

Michael: That was almost funny.

Maria: Almost? You're giving Prissy Pamela over there too much credit.

Alex: OK. Well whatever we do, can we at least avoid all the fake hacker shit? I can't take it seriously.

Max: To be fair, you said that about Mr. Robot, and that's pretty authentic.

Alex: No. I *whispers* I said Rami Malek was distracting. Why are we talking about this?

Liz: When did you two -- you guys watched Mr. Robot together?

Max *shrug*: We hang out sometimes. Maria and I cry over Hallmark and Lifetime movies, too.

Maria: No, you cry, Maxwell.

Michael: Cut the shit, DeLuca. You totally cry.

Maria: Rami Malek is good. Bohemian Rhapsody then?

Rosa: Boh-- they did a movie about Queen?!

Alex *excited*: Yes! Well, mainly Freddie Mercury. We should--

Isobel: *waves dismissively* I can't do Bohemian Rhapsody, but if we're doing music, what about A Star is Born?!

Kyle, Max, and Michael in unison: No!

Liz: Isobel, we have watched that three times already.

Max: Maria and I sang a duet to half the -- no. Not again.

Rosa *muttering to herself*: I guess I'll watch Bohemian Rhapsody by myself.

Alex *conspiratorially*: There's a screening next week a few towns over. We'll go then. I already bought our tickets.

Rosa: Have I told you lately you're my favorite?

Alex: *tousles her hair*

Rosa: Asshole. I take it back.

Alex: No you don't.

Liz: There's a really great documentary on the discovery of --

Michael: *feigns snoring*

Max: Liz, honey. Um ...

Isobel: No one wants to watch the history of the mass spectrometry, OK? Science gets you off, not the rest of us. [holds hand up to stop Michael from speaking] Don't you dare joke about porn.

Alex: It's a nice night for horror.

Rosa: Ohh, I second this.

Michael: *shrugs*

Liz: I ... I can't do horror. OK?

Alex: Oh right... the mishap of 2006.

Maria: Riiiiight. No, definitely no horror.

Liz: We agreed not to mention that again!

Kyle: How come I don't know about this?

Max: Why don't I know about this?

Isobel: We need to hear about this.

Liz: No! Um, does anyone need more drinks? I'll get more drinks.

Max: We could always cancel movie night and reconvene at Kyle's place next time.

Rosa: Nice try, second-rate Thor, but no.

Max *mutters*: Second-rate. That's an upgrade.

Kyle and Maria: *have a silent conversation with just their eyes*

Michael: Care to share with the class? *his eyes rest on Maria*

Kyle: *snags for remote and queues up the Die Hard series*

Michael: Hey!

Maria: *high-fives Kyle and smirks* Yippee ki-yay, mother fu-

Kyle: Now, which one are we watching?

Everyone: *groans*

#roswell new mexico #crackedt #anyway...#we need more funnies and also more group scenes #and them hanging out because none of these loveable losers have friends or their own so they may as well hang out together

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scige-archive · 5 years

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welcome 2 my twisted mind ex dee !!

PREFERRED NAME — james :o)

PRONOUNS — she/they

AGE — 20 whole years i am aging rapidly

PINTEREST — HERE!

DISCORD — sniff#3644

TUMBLR (PERSONAL/MUSE/RPH) — svrgcnts is my muse / rph except im rly lazy n don’t do shit

OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA YOU’D LIKE TO SHARE — i like the attention on twitter but i’d prefer 2 b im’d for that ,,, it’s got my Face on it ,,,

MYER-BRIGGS — istp or w/e the fuck ,,, used to be infp or smth tho

HP HOUSE — i ,,, i don’t know ,,, i always get a different answer ,,, u tell me

ZODIAC — [burps] aquarius

DO YOU BELIEVE IN ASTROLOGY? — no ... ? like ... it’s just a fun ol’ thing but i don’t base my life around it ... i won’t scorn u if ur a gemini or smth

HOW OLD WERE YOU WHEN YOU STARTED RPING ON TUMBLR — uhh ... 19 i think ?? off tumblr it’s been a whole decade tho

WHAT YEAR WAS IT? — 2018 :/

NAME A RANDOM ROLEPLAY THAT STICKS OUT IN YOUR MEMORY — it was a closed group but we had an rp based out in the desert / loosely based on killjoys where ppl would build big ol’ robots and fight them in an arena n it was like ... dystopian. i had a gal named uuuhhh ... nora maybe ?? her granddad was the local fortune teller n she was one of the engineers

WHAT WEIRD ANIMAL WOULD YOU HAVE AS A PET IF IT WAS REALISTIC — are raccoons that far off .... from being realistic ... i’ve seen it done before ...

NAME THE FIRST SONG ON YOUR DISCOVER WEEKLY ON SPOTIFY OR THE FIRST SONG THAT COMES ON APPLE MUSIC / ITUNES SHUFFLE — alligators. alligators by trophy scars

NAME A BOOK THAT YOU READ IN SCHOOL THAT YOU SURPRISINGLY LIKED — uuhh ... fucking uuuhh ... what books have i liked ... pride and prejudice or the great gatsby b/c i always hated assigned reading but i’m a whore for mr. darcy n i liked daisy buchanan probably too much :/

NAME A BOOK YOU HATED THAT MOST PEOPLE LIKED — uuhhh ... fuckin’ ... i didn’t like mice of men ?? i don’t know how popular that was. don’t like the hazel wood by melissa albert or w/e but does Anybody lmao ... i don’t rly know ... hated this book i think called splinter and it was like alice in wonderland meets scene kids and i thought it was fuckin’ stupid.

WHAT TV SHOW DID YOU RECENTLY BINGE? — i haven’t binged any tv show recently ! i watched howl’s moving castle and shrek back-to-back though :/

FAVOURITE QUOTE — i’m big stupid ... i don’t know ... feed me anne carson quotes ...

LINK TO A VINE THAT EXUDES YOUR ‘ENERGY’ — this

DO YOU WRITE OUTSIDE OF RP? WHAT DO YOU WRITE? — rarely but i usually write urban fantasy ... big fantasy slut here

THREE YOUTUBERS YOU STILL TRUST — jenna marbles, emilia fart, sidney lavin, and BONUS youtuber joana ceddia

A CELEBRITY CRUSH THAT JUST WON’T QUIT — um ... uuh ... anne hathaway ... i think there’s another celebrity that makes me feel a certain way but i just. cannot remember atm.

EVER MEET A CELEBRITY? SHARE YOUR STORY — no but my mom’s friend dated lenny kravitz in high school

WHAT’S YOUR PICTURE-PERFECT NIGHT? — this ... but without anxiety

A CONSPIRACY THEORY YOU KINDA BELIEVE IN — princess diana was mc’fuckin’murdered :/

ARE ALIENS REAL? — yuh

PLAY ANY PHONE GAMES? WHICH ONES? — lily’s garden atm

WHAT’S A FILM YOU LOVED WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND RECENTLY WATCHED, ONLY TO FIND OUT YOU DON’T ANYMORE — i actually ... don’t like spirited away as much as i used to as a kid which makes me :/ still love howl’s moving castle though

DO YOU COLLECT ANYTHING? — sea shells and pretty rocks, books, random knick knacks, lighters, condoms except that one was accidental

WHAT’S SOMETHING YOU WANT TO LEARN MORE ABOUT BUT YOU’RE TOO LAZY? — i wanna learn ... some cool nature science shit ... animals and shit ... i’m not lazy i’m just poor and 2 stupid 4 a science major

THREE LANGUAGES YOU DON’T SPEAK, BUT WISH YOU COULD — italian, spanish, and like ... arabic maybe

MOVIE YOU’VE WATCHED MORE THAN 5 TIMES — shrek ... princess diaries ... uuhhh ... halloweentown and all the sequels ... maybe legally blonde

NAME A FICTIONAL CHARACTER FROM TV/FILM/MOVIE/GAME/BOOK THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF PROJECTING ON / YOU RELATE TO — [sticks fingers into my nostrils] uuhhh ... veronica mars, scott pilgrim, molly from booksmart, kelso, penelope garcia, mike myers’ cat in the hat, dr. evil, scooby doo

DO YOU FOLLOW ANY SPORTS? WHO DO YOU ROOT FOR? — no.

HOBBIES BESIDES WASTING AWAY HERE? — no.

PLUG A TV SHOW / MOVIE / BOOK / VIDEO GAME / ETC… YOU WISH MORE PEOPLE WOULD CHECK OUT — miss fisher’s murder mysteries ... very good if u like detectives but hate bbc sherlock. six of crows 4 a book. deponia (the complete journey) for a video game ... check out big fish if u wanna see danny devito’s bare ass

WHOSE BRAIN WOULD YOU LIKE TO PICK, ALIVE OR DEAD? — elon musk’s ... i don’t like him but i need to Know.

TEAM EDWARD OR JACOB? — edward :/

LAST MOVIE SEEN IN THEATRE — once upon a time in hollywood. it sucks and i hate feet but all the girls ? hot as fuck.

DO YOU STILL READ? — uuh ... kind of ??

IF SO, WHAT ARE YOU CURRENTLY READING? — last book i was reading but haven’t finished and haven’t ... gotten around to reading more of ... is strange the dreamer which is a really good book i’m just shit for brains

ON A SCALE OF 1-10, HOW MUCH DID YOU HATE FILLING THIS OUT? – like ... a 5 i think ... my back hurts and i have 2 pee

#wshedtask #wshedtask002 #wshedooc

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kariachi · 5 years

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It’s today’s last episode, and it’s the special 90s tribute one people have been so excited for me to see.

Kevin is back, back again, in Introducing Kevin 11!

Oh gods, even the music over the opening credits is 90s

A swap meet dedicated to the 90s. Speaking as someone born in 1990, the nostalgia is already real.

Ben, doubting his grandfather is qualified to be watching children. As I have for 11 years

“Spend your money wisely” three guesses Ben’s response and the first two don’t count

Ben, about to drop everythign he owns on vintage sumo slammer cards. Speaking as a digimon fan, I feel him. You’d be amazed what I’d give for some of those things.

Dear dude at the sumo slammer booth, fuck off.

Fight to the death over a sumo slammers figure.

Okay, not a fight to the death, but still overkill

My gods, Kevin has managed to be the most 90s thing in the room. He’s wearing fucking rollerblades and a garish blue/purple/yellow combo. I went to school with people in that outfit! I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that jacket in person!

Oh my gods, including the headwear. When this boy comes to a swapmeet he comes prepared. Now I wanna see what the fuck he’d have worn to the ren fair.

When your rival is dressed in such vintage sparkles appear over your head.

The slow shift from ‘aw, Ben isn’t rising to my teasing’ to fucking ‘oh I know how to ruin his day’ Grinch smile is lovely

omg Kevin pulling out the “in the 90s it was cool to be bad”. It’s adorable, like watching children try to cite medieval standards.

And Kevin pulls out an alien once Ben refutes his attempts to get him to misbehave. Not even because he’s annoyed, just for fun.

Rush, also cool, very insect vibe.

Apparently this Kev doesn’t like Sumo Slammers. Or at least Ben doesn’t think he does. Also Kevin stealing a toy purely because Ben wanted to buy it.

Poor meteor feet saleman.

Also Kevin is having such fun with this.

Ben, I don’t blame you for being upset, but could you do less destroying stuff?

Ben has awakened the not-Furbies, they’re attacking. We’re not gonna follow it.

Kevin- steals toy and goes playing keepaway Ben- destroys swapmeet in attempt to get toy back

Great at drafting, bad at art, good job, Kev

Gods preserve me, there’s just so much 90s. My nostalgic heart is dying. And that’s even without Kevin. I may not survive this.

Going Skunkmoth to steal food

Also Skunkmoth looks awesome, just like all Kev’s aliens. Actually I should see if I can find any figures of this shit on amazon...

Welp, that shit’s not mint condition now

Welp

...okay 1) Kevin we don’t fart in people’s faces, 2) damn that other sumo nerd was a jerk. Like, to blame that on Ben takes willful ignorance given Kevin was right there, sticking his ass in Ben’s face, and called for his attention just before farting. I hope that other kid lost his cards on the bus or something.

Ben finally getting to properly throwdown, get revenge for Kevin’s bullshit.

Oh Kevin baby. We’ve finally gotten to the one Kevin scene I was properly spoiled for and boy is it a doozy. Ben knocks Kevin around until he times out and Kevin gets upset with him. As far as he was concerned he was just playing, having fun, and Ben, still Four Arms, calls him out, says it wasn’t fun for him. He demands answers for why Kevin’s been following him, demands he basically get his own life. Kevin doesn’t answer his question, just calls him a baby and tells him to run off back to his grandfather, and Ben-

“At least I have someone to run back to-!” Note, I’ve seen people give Ben shit over this, but I’ll allow it if just because the second it comes out his mouth he realizes he crossed a line and tries to backpedal. He’s not a bad kid, he just, well, kids are stupid and he’s worked up. And Kevin, the look on his face, like he’s pissed and upset at the same time. And when he responds there’s baring of teeth, but also he’s very clearly really upset. Ben struck a serious nerve there with him, for one reason or another.

“So, that’s how it is.” This line has stuck with me since I first saw this scene, how it’s said, and now with the context- I said before, when talking about Kevin’s bullying behavior and what might be behind it, that Kevin might not target Ben specifically for any reason at all, and I think now is when I should clarify that. I don’t think Kevin’s targeting Ben was personal. Because this moment right here, that’s a ‘now it’s personal’ moment. Whatever reason Kevin targeted him, it’s not because Kevin had a problem with him specifically. But right here, right now, in Kevin’s mind Ben has escalated things. And so he dials up something “original”, just for him.

And through all that, Ben’s still trying to apologize.

Bashmouth looks awesome

Half of this episode has been Ben calling Kevin and his shit cool.

“Kevin, you’re out of control” Yes, yes he is, this is one pissed and hurt puppy. One who, when he responds with “Who cares” does it loudly enough that Ben’s blown back, the ground beneath his feet craters, and some concrete supports start cracking.

Bashmouth=Kevin’s Rath. Ben=Concerned little bean.

Ben is having an existential crisis because Kevin is cooler and stronger and gets an extra alien.

They are throwing a ‘don’t compare yourself to other people, love you for you’ moral at the end of this. I feel like it could’ve been placed better somewhere else. Comes out of left field a bit.

Plus- Ben apologizes to Kevin for his earlier remark, asks him to help clean up the disaster they caused so people don’t get hurt Cons- Kevin agreeing because Gwen

And Kevin punches through the fucking roof, escaping that way and leaving Ben in the collapsing whatever.

Kevin stopped to wave as he bounded off as Bashmouth

Forever Nerd showing up while Kev recovers from the day, criticizing his lack of control (which is bullshit, his control so far has been fine, Bashmouth was a mess and he’s got emotional issues, but Rath started out a mess too and he got a hang of shit fine in the end) and insisting that it doesn’t matter how much stronger he is if he can’t control himself. Offers to help. And Kevin reluctantly agrees. Honestly it almost feels like this ep would’ve worked better before Franken-Fight. Was scheduled wrong on both sides of the globe. It fills that void between it and KotC well.

10/11

#ben 10 2.os #my *son*

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romaniassexdungeon · 5 years

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Stars in your eyes

My part in the @aphgenficexchange for @tikola-nesla! Sorry it’s late, but here’s part one, with part two coming up soon, hopefully. I went with space+criminal prompts to make a sorta space-pirate thing, though there doesn’t seem to be much pirating, and all your relationship prompts.

Anyway, hope you like it!

Characters: Eduard (Estonia), Logan (Australia), Tino (Finland), Erzsebet (Hungary), Gunner (Denmark), Lars (Netherlands), Luca (Luxembourg), Laura (Belgium), mentioned Oscar (Hutt River) and Charlie (Wy)

Warnings: mentions of drugs, child abuse and violence

“This is Logan Apari Cooper, medic of the Waititi. The date is December 21st and I’m on the other side of the galaxy to my family. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll see them in a few… years. Maybe. Right now, I gotta focus on keeping everyone alive, take one day at a time and hope that specky cunt keeps this piece of shit ship in one piece so I can get outta here one day.”

Logan sighed, then deleted the recording. He promised himself he’d stop getting emotional over his situation, but birthdays and Christmas were always hard. He’d already missed Charlie’s birthday last month - she’d be 12 now - and he’d never abandon his crew, but if he could, he would be on Ediacara in a nanosecond.

He started a new recording. “Morning - or what counts as morning here - has broken on the 21st of December, my babies are so, so far away, and I am so fucking alone.”

He threw his tablet across the room and flopped onto his bed. Fuck the log. Fuck these stupid days where either nothing happened or he was doing shit that would get him killed.

Logan had always wanted to go on an adventure. He’d wanted to explore the universe, have near-death experiences, discover new planets and bone aliens, but his desire for adventure was now losing against his hatred of being cooped up inside, especially inside a tin can full of his crewmates’ farts for months. He wanted fresh air, his home planet, his parents, and his brother and sister.

He punched his pillow, then turned to face the wall and sulk until he was called for breakfast.

Eduard was making his morning rounds, checking every little nut and bolt to make sure the very ground beneath his feet didn’t fall apart. They hadn’t gotten round to press-ganging an assistant for him, so he had to do everything himself, even the boring, messy stuff that was technically beneath him.

He didn’t particularly mind, though. It was something to keep his hands busy while his mind worked, and he’d rather do it himself than with someone held here against his will. It took a while for new people to break, psychologically, and start seeing them as their new crew, and he didn’t want to risk the integrity of the ship over it.

Pirates really sucked, he had to admit. If his cousin wasn’t the captain, he’d probably hate it here.

Be that as it may, he absolutely loved exploring space. Not only did he wake up to it every day, but he got to live in a real spaceship, tinkering and studying every day. It was what he’d wanted since he was a boy. An escape.

Things would be better without the raids and danger, though.

He heard a sniff coming from one of the rooms. A sigh. It seemed to be coming from Cooper’s room. He wondered if he should check on him, but the man was so big and tough and strong and maybe he wouldn’t appreciate Eduard butting in.

But he wanted to help.

But talking to people was scary.

He mustered up all his courage and knocked on the door. It fell away, revealing Logan Cooper, curled up on his bunk. When he heard him enter, he turned to glare at him, eyes red. Eduard winced.

“Sorry,” he whispered, “just… I heard something, and, wanted to see if you’re okay. I’ll- I’ll just leave, if you-”

“No, it’s okay, stay.” He sat up, patting the mattress. Eduard sat down, back stiff and unsure of what to do with his hands.

“Something up?” he asked. He got along with the crew, but they still intimidated him. He was weedy, skinny and not tough in the slightest, whilst everyone else looked like they could break him in half with their bare hands. He didn’t want to get on their wrong side, even if they all technically relied on him to survive in space.

Logan shrugged. “I just… it’s embarrassing, but I miss my family. I haven’t seem ‘em in - I dunno - years now.”

“Doesn’t sound embarrassing at all. I imagine I’d miss my cousins… after a while.” Logan snorted. Eduard decided not to mention he certainly didn’t miss his parents; it would sound bad, complaining about them to a guy who apparently liked his family. “Tell me about them.”

“You wanna hear about them?” He seemed genuinely surprised at that.

“Yeah. You seem to really care about them.” If it wasn’t for his cousins, he’d have no idea what that would be like.

Logan smiled, and- okay, they were hugging now. It was a one-armed hug, but still more affection than he’d gotten from his parents. He let go an entire five seconds after Logan.

“Thanks, it means a lot,” Logan smiled at him. “I got a little brother and sister, back on my home planet. Back living with our parents. They’re both smarter than me already.”

Eduard looked at him. “You’re the medic.”

“Yeah, but they have more common sense than me.”

Yeah, he couldn’t argue with that; it was a miracle this idiot was still alive, given how reckless he was.

He was smiling as he began speaking. “Oscar… He’s… smart. A bright kid, bit of a dick, but a good guy. He’s probably gonna take over the farm. He likes farming. And the good things in life, I guess. Complete opposite of me. He’s going places, y’know?”

Eduard smiled. “And the sister?”

“Charlie, little kid. Loves getting into trouble and running around, climbing trees and stuff. Always getting mud on her. And she loves art, too. She’s great at painting. Like, she can paint on anything: shells, rocks, little bits of bark. Our whole house is just full of things she’s painted.”

“They sound lovely,” Eduard nudged him. “I’m sure they’re in good hands.”

“Yeah. I miss them, though. Don’t you miss your family?”

Eduard winced. “My family is my cousins. I don’t need anyone else.”

Now it was Logan’s turn to wince. “Well, you and your cousins are always welcome on Ediacara. My parents would love you, and probably try to adopt you.”

He laughed, but a sad kind of laugh like he was masking a great pain.

“Sucky parents?” asked Logan.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He probably would, though, at a moment’s notice. And enough alcohol. Like that time he broke down crying at space McDonalds and told the cashier about how his parents found out he was claustrophobic and started locking him in a tiny cupboard as punishment.

“Well, my parents just adopted you.”

“Your parents don’t know me.”

“Doesn’t matter, they’re your parents too now.”

He started crying. “I would die for them.”

“Hey, man- oh fuck you’re crying,” Logan held him in his arms, “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he sobbed, “I just- your family sounds so nice.” He wanted Logan’s parents to hold him in their arms and tell him they were proud of him.

“Your cousins are nice too. And hey, it must be fun living with them, right?”

Eduard nodded. “Yeah, I love them. They’ve always looked out for me. I’m, well, they’re tougher than me, and I’ve always been an easy target. You know, for bullies and people looking for a hostage. They keep me safe, and alive.” He smiled. “I couldn’t imagine being apart from them.”

Logan nodded. “They’re good people. You hold onto them.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

“Is everyone still mad at Lars?” Gunner looked from one crewmember to the other.

“Yes,” said Luca, immediately, not looking up from his accounts.

“Not mad, just disappointed,” sighed Tino next to him, picking at the beaten up sofa and wondering just how to get out of what would probably be an awkward conversation.

Gunner sat down opposite them, twiddling his thumbs. “And how long are you gonna keep being mad at him?”

“Indefinitely,” said Luca.

“Aw come on, man! He didn’t hurt anyone!”

“That doesn’t changed that he hotboxed an escape pod!” cried Luca. “And, if I recall, you were right there with him.”

Gunner winced. “I was hoping you’d forget. His idea, though.”

“Moron.”

“That’s fair. But, in our defense, we didn’t wanna smoke all that space weed around everyone else, not in such a confined space such as this ship. We were trying to be responsible.”

Tino tried his best not to laugh. Luca, however, looked less amused.

“Very noble of you, I’m sure. Except when your dumb, high asses opened the door to go get space snacks and flooded the place with smoke.” Gunner giggled at that. “It’s not funny! Eddie started crying because he suddenly realised he was white!”

Tino burst out laughing. Luca tried his best to keep a straight face, but even he was struggling.

“It’s hardly the worst thing he’s done,” Gunner pointed out.

“That’s the thing. He was a dick when we were kids, and he’s still a dick now, and I couldn’t wait for him to only be someone I had to see at family gatherings. Now I’m stuck working under him.”

“I know, I was his best friend through all his dickishness.”

“I have no sympathy. You had a choice. I didn’t.”

“Yeah, and I kept him in my life because he’s a good person. Deep, deep down. He has moments of tenderness.”

Luca raised an eyebrow. “To anyone besides the rabbits he thinks we don’t know he keeps under his bed?”

“There’s the cat Laura keeps in her room,” Gunner tried, “and yeah, he really loves you. He’s just not good at expressing his emotions. I’m working on him, I promise. I’m certain I’m gonna get him to open up while sober any day now!”

Luca and Tino stared at him for a long moment.

“Any week now!” Gunner corrected.

#aph estonia #aph australia #aph denmark #aph luxembourg #aph finland #are the characters featured so far #hetalia #aph #aph fanfiction #HETALIA FANFIC #Hetalia Fanfiction #space au #pirates au #there's ozest if you squint #could be interpreted either way

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omgnsfwisnsfw-blog · 5 years

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The Beginning Is The End Is The Beginning: Second Chapter Prologue

It was nighttime, and the waning moon was, for some reason, vividly bright. Mike McGuire was laying in the middle of the ring in their backyard, staring up through the branches. The leaves had yet to sprout, but the buds were set to start opening up anytime. Same could be said for the young plants newly set in the soil near the back porch- a small plot of land freshly tilled up, planted with varying marigolds, daffodils, impatiens, and centered in it all, a rosebush received for Valentine’s. It was nice and neat, every plant perfectly arranged. The same could not be said for the garage.

--------------

It had all began not even a few days ago. A few days ago after losing their beloved tag team championship belts at the biggest show of the year. They had spoken little. They showered, dressed, went to the hotel, slept, got on the plane the next morning. And somewhere over the ocean, John had turned to Mike, and in a rare initiation of conversation…

“Mike.”

John was looking out the window, like he did with every trip, and there was a quiet mesmerization about it. Mike startled a bit. He didn’t usually initiate conversation. Sometimes early on they wouldn’t speak for hours, and when Mike asked why he wasn’t talking to them he simply replied ‘you didn’t say anything.’ Him breaking his ‘speak when spoken to’ habit usually indicated he had something important on his mind, so they’d shifted and given him their full attention. “Yeah, bud?”

“I turned 42 two weeks ago.”

He didn’t sound overtly happy about it. John’s emotional inflection was a subtle, nuanced thing, but by now Mike had become very attuned to picking it out. Still, they offered him a wavery little smile, probably in an attempt to cheer the both of them up. “You shoulda told me that. Woulda made you a cake.”

John shrugged.

“Better stuff to celebrate.”

His hand touched the window briefly.

“Like us.”

He turned to Mike in his chair and spoke low.

“But what I mean is that … maybe I can continue to do this. Maybe my body holds up a little longer. But I’ve come to realization that I don’t want to.” They sat up bolt upright, their head tilting to the side. For a moment they resembled an Irish Setter who just heard a far-off dog whistle and was trying to process what in the world that sound was. “You wanna stop? Like… this minute?” It wasn’t accusatory- more like confirming that the sounds coming out of his mouth were forming words that they were understanding the meaning of.

“Yes.” “You sure?” “Yes.” They sat back in their seat, expression a little dazed, as if showing mild signs of shock. Then they closed their eyes, inhaled, exhaled. Managed a smile, wobbly for a different reason than their previous one, and reached over, giving his wrist a squeeze. “...okay.”

The declaration had caught Mike completely off guard. In a way, they thought, they should’ve seen it coming at some point- he’d made some remarks about the ugliness of the business, beginning to think past it. But they hadn’t thought it would happen so suddenly. It was like driving at 60 MPH and then suddenly slamming on the brakes, the sudden jettisoning into the seatbelt knocking out all your breath and leaving your insides hurting. They went home. He planted his garden, seeming serene and perfectly content. Mike gave Alundra a once-over- they’d had her painted in their absence, the vivid yellow and red flame paintjob traded for an emerald green with orange flame one. The new vanity plates installed- NSFW 1. Something stabbed inside them. The next day. Grocery shopping. Mike going over their particulars. So much had been provided for them that had to be taken into account now. Health insurance- the extended coverage wouldn’t last forever, and though they could easily afford it, plans for two people in their shape wasn’t going to come easily. Something pricked at their eyes. Mike kept staring at their phone. It would ring eventually, they just knew it, a gruff voice on the other end demanding what in the blue hell they thought they were doing, is this what I wasted my time on you for, pulling yourself out of obscurity and stumbling into the perfect partner just to vanish like a fart in the wind? They weren’t sure the old man would say that. But what would they think, when they heard? How would they explain ‘he wanted out and I couldn’t deny him that and I can’t keep going in good fucking conscience without him’? And so on till today. This evening. Just now. Mike found themselves in the garage. They looked around. A small box was on the table- a prototype of a new piece of merch. A snowglobe. Little figurines of them under a dome of glass filled with water. They held their title belts. Shake it, orange and green confetti glitter swirled around. Pieces of fanmail, notes on their Twitter, asked where they’d gone. Some wished them well. Some worried that they were hurt or worse. Some said they felt betrayed. Why couldn’t you have even said goodbye? We believed in you. Quitters. Mike’s grip tightened on the snowglobe, their teeth gritting together hard. ‘It got taken from me and I wasn’t ready, and it fuckin’ sucks. So bad.’ Their own words from a year past slam into their brain and with a roar, they throw the snowglobe down, sending a shatter of broken glass and glitter water splatting over the concrete floor. A t-shirt snatched from a box, the phoenix that’d been emblazoned on their viking flags torn in two with an obnoxious ripping sound, the rest of the box kicked over. Their head whipped around, glaring viciously at the cardboard face of David Scott. Screeching, all but consumed by their fury, they dashed forward, grabbing him by the top of his large, scowling head and tearing the cutout apart. They couldn’t believe their own anger. They felt robbed, cheated, resentful. And all those feelings made Mike feel even worse, because they didn’t want to direct them at John. They couldn’t have kept going if he hadn’t wanted to. They didn’t want to be one more person who knew his desires and chose to ignore them. Mike’s train of thought slowly cooled their anger. All that was left was a giant mess of broken glass, torn t-shirts, dented boxes, ripped up cardboard. Something sick heaved in their chest and they left the garage, numbly trekking through the backyard until they found themselves in the ring.

-------------- So there they were. Maybe they could salvage something. Maybe the fans they hadn’t completely alienated would still want them, for old time’s sake. If they got back into auto repair maybe they could even sell them there as a bonus. Nostalgia was always a hot ticket, and somebody in the future was bound to remember that one tag team that got super hot and then vanished without a trace out of nowhere. Raising an arm, they laid it over the bridge of their nose, shielding their closed eyes from the moonlight as they tried not to sob. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.

John stood in the doorway of garage backdoor. Behind him was the aftermath of the disturbance that woke him. He had noticed immediately that Mike was gone. He had sat up from the bed and waiting until the noises subside. Quietly, he went to the garage and looked upon what had happened. His emotions ticked up slightly to disappointment that the quiet last few days had been a simmering pot and it had just spilled over. Soft footsteps went across the yard to the source. He stood just outside the ring, keeping his distance for the moment. He cut through the ambience of the night.

“I know you’re angry at me.” There was a long pause. The soft, occasional chirp of an early cricket or two. “‘M not mad at you. I feel shitty that I’m mad at all. S’ fuckin… complicated.” They didn’t move, their speech muted. If their anger was a fire, right now they were the embers that some knowledgeable Eagle Scout had doused with water and stirred up with a stick. Only You Can Prevent Wildfires. “...i didn’t want to not give you this. I feel like I’ve let people down. Myself a little. And then I get mad at myself cuz the alternative is what? Making you run yourself down when you don't want to anymore just to feed my own fuckin’ dream that I should’a grown out of? It… I…” Sniff. “...it just happened so fuckin’ quick. Like slammin’ a book shut ‘fore you read the end.”

John circled around to the wooden steps leading up onto the apron. He put a foot on the first step.

“I thought it would just be the end of a chapter.” Slowly lowering their arm from their face, they scooted themself across the canvas a bit away from the center- not a recoil, but an invitation. Reaching up, they curled their hand around the bottom rope. They knew that. It made them feel even more foolish for exploding the way they had, the silvery light of the moon accentuating the blush standing out on their damp cheeks. “I’m bein’ a fuckin’ dumb baby, aren’t I…”

“No. Not happy that I advertently made a decision for you as well.”

“We’re a package deal. Can’t do it without you. Don’t want to. I know what you said’s right. Our story ain’t over. Just feel like I’ve been thrown violently into the next scene without any time to brace myself. But I’ll get over it. Get over myself, maybe.” Their right arm, the one not gripping onto the rope, reaches out to the side, fingers beckoning a bit. “‘M sorry I broke all that stuff… poor Milscott…”

“It was just that. Stuff.”

He stepped up onto the apron.

“I believed in what we said. All of that talk about hall of fames and being the greatest. It was fun. It lit a fire inside of me. But it made me feel like we were walking down the wrong path. Like we almost did before.”

“Mouthy little shit talks a big game.” There was a dry chuckle at that. All that talk of being the first tag team in the EWC Hall of Fame would likely amount to just that. Talk. It was one of the things that’d jagged at them these past few days, that their ultimate legacy was apparently a foul-mouthed hothead who made big grandiose boasts only to bail without warning. Exhaling, they turned their head toward him, hand still reaching in his direction. “How so? We weren’t bein’ dicks again, were we?”

“No.”

He walked along the the edge of the apron, stopping just before them.

“Don’t think it was that simple. Our words, though? They started to mirror something we swear we’d never be. Started to have some folks nod along that weren’t before.”

It took Mike a moment to puzzle that one out, their mouth pursing, flicking two and fro, nose crinkling a bit. After a few seconds, though, their red-rimmed eyes popped, left hand releasing the rope and going to their mouth with a gasp. “Noooooo. You can’t fuckin’ mean… no. No motherfuckin’ way we were sounding like him. … Were we really?”

“Maybe not exactly. But it made me think. Readjusted a few priorities.”

He had finally stepped through the ropes and entered the ring. He stood over them.

“I would have gone as long as we had those belts. And sure, there were amazing possibilities on the horizon. I love the sport. But I had been wrong in the assumption that it was the only thing I was meant to do. You made me see that.” Mike looked up at him. From this angle he looked impossibly huge, and it made them feel smaller in comparison. Physically anyway. John never made you feel small as a person, and if he did, you probably deserved it. “...maybe I’ve had it backwards this whole time then. I kept seeing things as… I don’t fuckin’ know… a block building. You take out any one part of it- me, you, our home, the business- and everything falls to pieces. I mean I figured we’d stop someday, maybe in a year or two, kinda ease out of it, tell everybody where we were going an’ why. But in all those big fuckin’ pipe dreams I didn’t think about what you thought. I just assumed you wanted the same thing I did when it came to the business an’ that was fuckin’ selfish of me. I’m really sorry.”

He knelt down beside Mike, before finally sitting back, crossing his legs.

“I wanted all of that. But there’s more to us, I believe. I’d be naive to think there isn’t conflict elsewhere in the world but it is less likely than what we were doing. I had remembered what I loved about the business before it was taken all away. But more importantly, I now have something I never had.”

“...VIP customer status at Barnes and Noble?” The cheeky grin that flicked onto Mike’s face wasn’t the wavering, willing-yourself-to-smile expression she’d given him the last couple days. Like a breath of fresh air, it was real. Slowly, they pulled themself up to a sitting position, folding their legs likewise, facing him, reaching for his hands. Without hesitation, John placed his hands into theirs. He smiled in response to Mike’s joke. Sighing softly, Mike ran their thumbs over his knuckles tenderly. Even if they had been mad at him, it wouldn’t have lasted. They could be mad at a lot and hold grudges for ages, but never at him. Something about John was impossible to be angry with- least that’s how Mike saw it. “So… now what?”

John shrugged in response. But in that same moment, he felt an answer come through.

“We stop hiding who we are.”

#Location: Home #post EWC

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goforwardgreenwriter-blog · 6 years

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The Worm Reads: Empire of Storms, Ch 65 - 67

I want this book over and done with

The Lock had crafted the sarcophagus from the mountain itself. It had taken every ember of its power to bind Erawan within the stone, to seal him inside.

Chapter 65 opens up with Elena’s POV on how Erawan is sealed up.

When [Elena] had stolen the Lock from her father all those months ago, she had not known—had not understood —the truth depth of its power. Still did not know why he had forged it. Only that once, just once, could the Lock’s power be wielded. And that power … oh, that mighty, shattering power … it had saved them all.

Holy fragments, Batman! Holy em dashes, Batman! Was SJM typing with one hand or?

Gavin, sprawled and bloody behind her, stirred. His face was so mangled she could barely see the handsome, fierce features beneath.

Gavin got his ass whooped by Erawan but Elena still needs to bust a nut over how hot he once was lmfaoooooo you’re killing me SJM

But even Gavin had not known what [Elena]’d been planning. What she’d stolen and harbored all these months. She did not regret it. Not when it had spared him from death. Worse.

Lmao is this an unintentional parallel to Alien and Rowboat because i am laughing Elena is punished for keeping secrets but Alien blatantly gets away with it holy fucking shit

Some spirits show up and tell Elena despite her efforts, no cigar. Erawan is gonna bust out of there eventually.

“He will rise again one day,” said the one of darkness and death. “He will awaken. You have wasted our Lock on a fool’s errand, when you could have solved all, had you only the patience and wits to understand.” “Then let him awaken,” Elena begged, her voice breaking. “Let someone else inherit this war—someone better prepared.”

I’m a sucker for conflict like this, where the older generation passes their problems onto the younger generation and the falling out from that, but sadly SJM didn’t give me any good character to inherit these problems for me to care about. Such a good concept wasted on a shitty disguise for fantasy porn.

Elena has to promise she’ll help whoever holds the Wyrdkeys next to fix the problems she made. Thanks, Elena, for making me read Alien’s shitty adventure. The scene swaps over to another memory.

The Princess of Eyllwe had been wandering the Stone Marshes for weeks, searching for answers to riddles posed a thousand years ago. Answers that might save her doomed kingdom.

Wait.....Nehemia?

Nehemia, baby, what are you doing here? Flee this shitty novel! Run my child, be free and flee to the land of actual good writing!

So Elena tells Nehemia about Alien’s destiny to save everyone (gag) and to go forth and seek out Alien to help her.

“And the price?” Elena hated them, then. Hated the gods who had demanded this. Hated herself. Hated that this was asked, all these bright lights … “You will not see Eyllwe again.”

Wow. So SJM really made a black woman’s entire character arc about dying for her precious snowflake OC, huh....SJM really out here dong Nehemia dirty like this.........

Nehemia swallowed. “Then I shall help in whatever way I can. For Erilea. And my people.”

GROSS SOBBING

NEHEMIA DESERVES SO MUCH BETTER THAN WHAT THIS SHITTY SERIES DID TO HER NEHEMIA BABY I AM SO SORRY

Chapter 66 opens with Assdion’s POV... great. Can I please see Maeve punch him in his stupid face?

Aedion Ashryver had been trained to kill men and hold a line in battle since he was old enough to lift a sword.

SJM is still attempting to get me to feel bad for Assdion. Well guess what Sarah, too little too late.

But Aedion’s duty wasn’t to remind [the soldiers] of the blunt facts. His duty was to make them willing to die, to make this fight seem utterly necessary.

Anything for your precious queen Alien, huh? Eat my ass, Assdion.

[Lysandra] had modified her sea dragon. Given it longer limbs—with prehensile thumbs. Given her tail more strength, more control.

Holy fucking shit, and I thought Alien was a Mary Sue!!! So Lysandra can not only perfectly shift into a creature she’s never seen in the flesh before, she can also modify it like it’s an RPG??? Holy fucking shit Sarah quit making all your OCs over powered!! How the fuck am I supposed to be feel any tension or fear???

Arrows fired with better accuracy than the Valg foot soldiers, shooting like those rays of sunshine into the water. [Lysandra]’d prepared for that, too. They bounced off scales of Spidersilk. Hours spent studying the material grafted onto Abraxos’s wings had taught her about it—how to change her own skin into the impenetrable fiber.

1. “rays of sunshine” the fucking imagery???? Does SJM know how words work???

2. HOLY SHIT, PULLED OUT OF YOUR ASS MUCH??? We were given no indication Lysandra had been studying Abraxos’s wings until now, what a fucking ass pull!!! If you’re going to introduce new sudden magical elements you have to show them beforehand, otherwise it looks like you wrote yourself into a corner and just farted out a solution last minute!!!!

I hate this book. I hated it before, but I really hate it. The fact that so many talented authors receive no attention but SJM’s absolute garbage dumpster fire novels that are just for porn with no other thought put into them get all this praise makes me want to jump off a bridge.

Anyways, now we’re in Dorito’s POV and SJM Dorito is splooging over how powerful Rowan is. Same old, same old.

But when Aelin found their bodies, or whatever was left of them if the sea didn’t claim them … she might very well end the world for rage. Maybe she should. Maybe this world deserved it.

I mean, if she ended the world this series would be over and I’m on board with that, but you guys have spent this entire novel fighting to protect the world from the bad guys and now suddenly when things get hard you’re like, “eh fuck it the world doesn’t deserve our help”? Wow, some heroes you guys are.

[Dorian] wished he’d had more time to talk to the witch. To get to know her beyond what his body had already learned.

I’m not touching this because it’s beyond fucking stupid and this is the moment SJM should’ve woken up and realized her precious romances have no chemistry and are simply there for porn purposes.

Anyways, surprise surprise, Rowboat’s begging actually worked and his cousins start firing at their own ships. Score one for ass pulls!

Rowan had told Enda about Aelin.

The next chapter opens up with this, and I’m honestly baffled. If Rowboat told his cousins about the selfish shitlord that is Alien, you’d think they’d be more than eager to destroy her ship. But I suppose not.

So [Rowan]’d gone, ship to ship. To the cousins he knew might listen. An act of treason—that was what he had begged them for. Treason and betrayal so great they could never go home. Their lands, their titles, would be seized or destroyed.

So why the fuck did they decide to help him?

No, I’m serious, Rowan doesn’t tell us. If I was one of his cousins and this fucker showed up after betraying our queen and begged me to risk my own life and family to save him, I’d tell him to go fuck himself.

Is SJM fucking with us on purpose? Because none of this makes any sense. They have no logical reason to help Rowan at the risk of themselves, and I’d bet every cent I ever owned Rowboat won’t lift a finger to help any of his cousins after Maeve kicks them out.

SJM is a shitty writer. She’s worse than fucking George Lucas. That’s right, I said it, don’t fucking come @ me.

Maeve wouldn’t allow it. She’d wipe the Whitethorn line off the map for this.

If Rowboat’s cousin and his lover die because of this I am going to break something.

Anyways, Rowboat and the gang start winning because of fucking course they do, and Lorcan realizes Maeve isn’t actually on any of her ships, but on the same beach Elide was ordered to wait on. Well, duh, did you really expect Maeve to be that stupid?

The chapter is over, and oh my god less then 10 chapters..... I can do this, I can do this...........

#the worm talks #the worm reads: eos #anti sjm #anti eos #anti tog

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sonofragendluv · 3 years

Text

Solo #3: ＴｈｅＤａｎｇｅｒｏｕｓＫｉｎｄ

Mojoworld was unbearable, a shit stain in the terrible beauty of so many universes largely unknown--and it's been Simon's second home in the last twenty years. Or just somewhere close to eight months, if he's comparing it with Earth time, the planet where he originated from.

Either way, he hates it here. If someone comes up to him one day back in Earth, who knows he's a mutant, and would ask him about his affiliation, Simon wouldn't have it in him to lie.

He's wanted, for the longest time, to say he belonged with the X-Men. Or the X-Force. Hell, he will take up the mantle of a Magneto acolyte at this point--anything but to be associated with the denizens of Mojoworld.

"It's like Hunger Games, only more oppressive and depressingly dumber," is the exact wording he would use if someone asked him to explain what Mojoworld even was.

That's not to say that Simon belittles or diminishes the only too-real struggles and sufferings of those who never wanted to be here, including the countless actors and musicians (not just from Earth) who had been abducted so they can entertain the Spineless ones ruled by this fucktard Mojo.

That's what they are as a collective species; a bunch of media-consuming, fart-brained, obese aliens who are only kept upright by this device a scientist came up with at some point. They all wake up and go to bed in a cycle of entertainment consumption, and Mojo kept them culled by producing atrocious movies with actors placed in very dangerous situations.

It's an even worse deal with the musicians. Or maybe Simon was just biased because that's his trade being fucked around with, and the reason why they took him during one Tuesday afternoon while he was shopping for shoes.

Zapped him using some sort of temporal distortion or whatever.

Simon had been imprisoned for what felt like ages and forced to perform in sleazy night clubs, stadiums with the most violent mosh pits imaginable, and the occasional kids' parties--all of which had been under the penalty of death if he ever dared refused.

Surprisingly, singing for his life had become a rather exhilarating experience, but that's besides the point.

He's got a very demanding ex-wife and a son back in Earth who can't ever know what happened. And he needed to come home to them.

It wasn't until he met a rebel faction comprised of other musicians that he found a way to escape.

Sort of. Not really.

It was more like he had been bullied into signing a record label ran by these so-called rebels who by now have become accustomed to a certain lifestyle--and bargained their talents in exchange for favors that Mojo personally granted.

And what did Simon get for his deal? Lousy shit he never asked for like his very own entourage and recording sessions at Mojofornia (yes, yes, they named it that) to help score a few movies. But he gets to at least go home.

A week on Earth is already six months in Mojoworld. It meant that, to his loved ones, Simon simply spent the weekend partying until he got sick which explained why he would have the worst hungover come Monday.

And not because he was touring for half a year around an ugly, ferocious, parasitic planet to play music. Apparently, he grew a steady fanbase during his first stint there, and Simon could admit that he actually liked the unique albeit insane environment of Mojoworld. Not aloud, mind you.

It was maybe a Thursday back in Earth, and Simon was just getting ready to leave this shit-stain planet. He had just come back from a particularly rowdy concert too where someone dumped a bucket of artificial blood while he was being passed around a mosh pit at some point.

They shoved him now into the hub where captives are usually transported from point A to point B, and didn't even allow him to change into something resembling human dignity.

Drying his hair with a towel, he steps into a platform, dragging his converse rather petulantly.

"Same time, one month from now?" He calls out with a sardonic smile to one of the slimy bastards operating his hub.

The dipshit just grunts, barely taking its eyes off the screen where a celebrity death match was being broadcasted. That's all they do here in Mojoworld; watch the shows, attend the concerts, eat until they shit and then they hibernate.

"Can we hurry this up because..." He gestures once at the red stains on his shirt and pants and the smudges on his skin. He can't wait to take a shower back home.

The spineless creature just pushes a button and a wormhole opens up.

"Fucking finally, man..." Simon adjusts the strap of his bags as he keeps the towel wrapped around his neck, then steps into the portal.

It takes a while to register that he isn't even walking in the right city, and that's because from the minute he was transported to Earth, Simon was already on his phone so he could text his ten-year old son. They're supposed to go to the park today.

Going from one planet to the next has become so routine by now (like taking the bus) that Simon still keeps looking at his phone and scrolls through the timeline of his social media next to see what he missed.

It was only when he realized that he had to cross a street that he looked up. Thirty seconds must have only passed since he stepped out of the portal and into wherever this is.

Simon blinks in annoyance and confusion. Something was off about this, and it has less to do with what he can see but more of what he could hear with his mutated sonar abilities--or not, in this case.

"Is this supposed to be--" he cuts himself short as he decides to move forward across the very much deserted streets of New York City. Well, that's alarming, especially (he glances at his watch) at this time of day. Wait...his watch has stopped working just now, and this is a special clock designed to keep him on track of the gaps between Earth time and Mojoworld.

"What kind of dimension is this now?" He hasn't started panicking yet. Maybe he should. But after all the bullshit he's been through in the previous planet, this doesn't seem that bad. Maybe he quantum-leaped into the future? Alternate universe? That's a thing, right? Goddamn space travel.

Those fat fucks in Mojoworld screwed up somehow. This isn't his home. Or even his version of reality. He can't explain it, but there's something about the atmosphere--the weight of the air, the littlest composition of matter--that makes him question it even exists.

"Fuck it," Simon unzips his duffle bag and rummages through his stuff until he found the device. It was something that helps him keep in touch with his fellow musicians still doing their gigs at Mojoworld.

Maybe he should take shelter somewhere first. He can't be standing around, out in the open like this. If there's one thing he's learned from being imprisoned in a hostile, foreign environment, is that he has to stay low and not announce his presence.

As he dashes to the closest unoccupied store he has spotted just now, Simon could only hope it wasn't too late. He did just spend several seconds browsing through Instagram earlier like a stupid asshole. Who knows if someone--or something--had seen him then?

He's now inside what looks like a hardware store. Things from the shelves have spilled out, most of which were smashed in or scattered on the broken tiled floor. Whatever shat here must have gone through that gaping hole on the left side of the building. Okay, ominous. Great.

Simon walks over to a wall where an ax was hanging so he could grab that. And then he looks for another room where he can barricade himself in while he tries to contact his friends.

➷

Instead of connecting instantly with Mojoworld, the washed-up punk rebel gets something even more mind-boggling.

"What?" Simon blinks at the message that appeared on his device's main hologram frame. He scrolls through the entire passage once, twice, several times, before he ends up exclaiming, "What the fuck is this shit now?" with all the exasperated indignation of the homesick, overworked, divorced father in his forties could muster.

He has no idea how to even begin unpacking the content of this enigmatic passage other than the fact that it had shitty timing. There's heat on the skin around his collar, so he knows he's fuming, but before the panic and anger could hijack him, he immediately summons prudence and simply breathes audibly through his nose whilst he collects his thoughts.

Simon tries to think, to force himself to actively rationalize what is happening and what to do next. He's itching to get out of his stained clothes. He's parched, a little hungover, and definitely impatient--but he will shove all those negative emotions now, if it meant keeping his wits about him. It's become clear that this new dimension, slice of reality, whatever, is not safe.

He could die--and other people somewhere could be in danger too. And this "Dr. Strange" may be the only key, his only lifeline, to get out of here unscathed. And that entails following their instructions.

As soon as his mind received the clarity it needed, he reads the it again with a more stoic calmness.

'Alright,' he said to himself, 'What sort of shit do I have to get done, doc?'

Rampaging goddesses, a nuclear reactor. So far, so good. Did this Dr. Strange know about Simon's abilities then? It would seem so, given that they phrased the last bit of the message with, 'It will be a bigger strain than your body has ever experienced, but maybe the physics in this dimension will help you.'

Then they end it with a cheery, 'Maybe not'. Fantastic.

He pockets the device and looks around the room he's decided to lock himself in. It's a storage of some sort with things he couldn't fully examine just yet but he might require some of them in the near future. Hopefully never, and that is if he could get out of here soon. Can this Dr. Strange guarantee that? Could he communicate with them, like, text back?

Simon takes out the device again. This was only supposed to connect to Mojoworld. Sighing, he pockets it yet again and places down his two bags. The one other thing he does take from one of them is a small, orange vintage stereo. It was deceptive in its appearance, like most of Mojoworld technology that is very fond of copying human gadget aesthetics.

This blows! He's packed to go back home not get recruited to participate in another Earth's bizarre geopolitics and power play. But sometimes all the choices you are offered are bad ones.

And he's gotten a good grip making them lately.

Clutching the ax in one hand and that stereo in another, Simon walks out of the store with the gait of someone who knows what he's doing. Confidence is part of the costume, and although what he's wearing wasn't exactly ideal for a suicide mission--black everything save the shirt that has 'fuck the police' in pink neon letters, and a rainbow brooch on his leather jacket--but at least he will die with style.

'Try not to die'. Yeah, right.

Simon stands there in the middle of the vacant street, a reluctant, irritated, one-man army, squinting at the horizon. He wasn't even given any directions specifically to locate the nuclear reactor. Some fucking doctor.

But he doesn't need them. He could already sense the energy even from this far distance. The reverberation is akin to doing tequila and whiskey shots, ten of each, without ever pausing for a chaser. Yeah, that's nuclear power, alright, and it beckons him to tip down that glass of radioactive poison.

Simon turns a few of the knobs in the stereo and goes, "This sucks."

A low-level sonar frequency engulfs the immediate ten-mile radius; he doesn't want to attract too much attention, but he also needs the longer range if he hopes to travel much faster.

What Simon doesn't anticipate was that Earth-1922's landscape is far more volatile than what he's accustomed to back in his earth, and even in Mojoworld. He soon finds that out when the vibrations from his tech caused a mini earthquake. One by one the buildings collapse around him like dominos.

"Somebody just fucking fuck me!" he shouts. Looks like he can't do any of this with subtlety anymore. Left with yet another bad choice to make, Simon's physiology begins to convert the crashing site into a power hub. Green, blue and pink lights sizzle and singe in the air, flooding the streets in vibrant colors. He hops into the wavelengths once he solidifies the form properly enough.

He never should have gotten wasted hours ago, because he's pretty sure he's going to throw up.

But he's, well, 'surfing' through the city now and heading towards nuclear reactor. He just happens to be doing it with as much color and chaos that could attract unwanted attention on the way.

➷

Simon has lived in Berkeley for the better part of his married life since turning twenty-seven, but he was originally raised in Oakland, California, located in the East Bay region.

When he thinks about his adolescence, it was always filled with memories of sunny, sea-drenched afternoons playing punk rock and getting fucked up on meth.

Careless self-expression is the trademark of the misfit, and the places he often found himself wrapped up in as a teenager had to be some of the loudest clubs in the country.

One of them was an underground indie music club named 86 Miserab Blvd. It was a melting pot of clashing and complementary energies that his dormant mutation must have been drawn to from the start, even when they had yet to manifest until he reached sixteen.

He thinks about the heartland of his youth right now while he glides through the ravaged streets of New York City from an alternate dimension. He can't stomach being so far away from home like this and under even worse conditions.

Or maybe that rumbling in his gut is just the upsetting combination of greasy onion rings and three bottles of something called Berserk Beer from Mojoworld.

Highly likely.

He will be puking some time today.

The sound-based colorful lights Simon just converted from the crash site four blocks away acted as tides which he is presently on top of. Bending his knees, he maintains that semi-crouching posture while thirty feet off the ground by stretching out his right arm in front of him for balance, while the other arm points below to maintain the energy blasts on his feet.

This position also allows him to steer better. So yes, he's /totally/ surfing. Across a city of ruins. Where everyone else could be dead. Surfing with simmering colors he created himself.

Like an asshole.

The vintage stereo tech was hooked on his belt with the use of a chain-wallet. He keeps the same decibels for now, a frequency no normal range of the human auditory sense could detect except him.

Ahead, the energy signature of the nuclear reactor emanates like a vicious bitch. That level of radioactivity has crawled right into his ear and started wriggling out of his eyes and nose. It's the greatest, most panic-inducing feeling in the world.

"Alright, nobody better come out of nowhere and punch me in the dick next," he mutters under his breath.

Because didn't Dr. Strange (of unverified credentials) say something about a rampage going on between 'goddesses'?

There's only one more mile to go. Simon was starting to taste the overflowing energy surge on the roof of his tongue. Growing even more paranoid and restless, he looks left and right to make sure nothing or no one is upon him.

My god, can't this joyride just settle with one genre of clusterfuck instead? Because Simon can't be smack-dab between a nuclear threat and a mythological battle, is he? Who's got time for all that shit? Dr. Strange?

He hates that guy.

As he turns to the next avenue, he expects that this nuclear reactor would be near a body of water--maybe a sea--to keep the turbines cool as they churn all that...energy. Wait, are those even the right terms?

Simon dropped out of high school, so his understanding of science is very rudimentary, and he mainly bases the knowledge he would acquire on how certain compositions of elements would interact and react to his mutation, or vice-versa.

He doesn't have a fancy degree like Dr. Strange.

After he decides that getting mad at someone he hasn't even met yet is counterproductive, Simon lowers the frequency by pressing something on his tech. This disintegrates the lights beneath him, just in time as he slides off to land on his feet on the ground again.

So here he is now, an untrained mutant recovering from inter-dimensional jet lag, now tasked to avert a global disaster.

If this world isn't doomed before...

He cranes his neck to stare at the power plant in front of him. Right. He can estimate at least another five hours before this whole thing blows up.

And that's if the reactor doesn't get attacked again.

Simon needs to think this through, so he walks further to the left side until the sea's coastline becomes bluer and more picturesque to look at. The sight of water was calming, cleansing, and reminds him how much he's still caked in fake blood and in need of a wash.

So he keeps walking towards the sea until he's leaning on the barrier that separates its depths from land and concrete.

He has the demeanor of a man who seems to have resigned to the inevitability of the catastrophe he must prevent.

'Another version of Earth, huh?' Simon thinks, 'Well, at least it still looks like the world I grew up in. There are worse places to die.'

But then he shakes off that hopelessness before it could kick him in the ass by remembering the one important discovery he's made in Mojoworld:

If the X-Man Dazzler can survive being thrown into a black hole seconds after a supernova exploded, then he certainly has to do better than just piss and moan about being homesick, doesn't he?

Not when this world hangs in a balance. Not when he could actually do something about it. He's a mutant, dammit! The next evolutionary stage that's supposed to be resilient to any adversity thrown its way.

Just as he makes a conscious decision to genuinely try, his other Mojoworld-sponsored device rings. The communicator, as he calls it.

It wasn't another message. Or a call. Instead, it was an alert about the latest "music video" he had shot earlier, and how it's finally streaming across Mojoverse. Gross.

Simon selects the hologram clip of that shitfest and watches himself--drugged up, drunk and shredding on his guitar--perform a passive aggressive song about murdering a disc jockey. It's basically a satire piece--saturated in techno-pop disco and horny pretty people dancing--to overthrow an oppressive regime.

Probably. He was forced to write and record said song in only two days' time, and this is what he comes up with. What did he get? No paycheck at all. Just a bucket of fake blood to the face.

As that video continues to play, Simon's eyes dart to the waters directly below him, and that's when he spots the impressive bloom of two dozen jellyfishes gliding through. Ah, so even Earth-1922 has a sweeping population problem of these poisonous bastards, huh?

Hold on...

Simon snaps his head towards the nuclear reactor. And then back at the water. Then back at the power plant again.

He knows that the certainty of swallowing a tremendous amount of nuclear energy might severely injure him permanently, regardless of his mutation, but not if he could lower the radioactivity that it could actually expel before time runs out.

There had been news coverage a long time ago about a swarm of jellyfish clogging a nuclear reactor in Sweden. Hell, even the Diablo Canyon back in California had the same infestation problem. It forced the people to shut down those plants. Boy, was Simon glad he remembered that as soon as he spotted those wily things.

Could he...is it possible...will he be able to gather enough to...?

And just how many of them are down there? Simon kneels on the pavement by the docks now so he can get a closer look at said marine life. No, this distance just won't cut it. Fucking hell, he's going to have to dive into the freezing water later, isn't he? But what of the frequency he can use to attract the jellyfish? He knows that it has a unique anatomy, and that even though it doesn't have a brain for processing most stimuli, maaaaybe it can respond to vibrations.

And what is sound energy if not just a bunch of vibrations? Or whatever the fuck scientific definition that he can't articulate.

Simon has yet to fully explore the sonar and nautical implications of his sound transduction, but he knows that it's an entirely different playing field under the sea. And that scares the shit out of him more than any black hole.

"Do I even have other options?" Maybe. Does Google work here?

He finds out a minute later that it sort of does, at least since he's using alien tech. Now he's learned that jellyfish can't really hear, but some can see--to a certain extent. Those that do have a sense of sight can detect lights. That's fine. He knows a way to convert sound to light after all.

Which means...

Simon stares back and forth at his communicator device (still playing his trashy song about DJ murder) and the deep blue sea. He then pulls up the stereo tech, but given how everything crashed down around him when he used it earlier, he was not eager to risk the same thing happening while he's underwater. So, the communicator device it is.

Someone needs to know about his plan, and who better inform about it than the one who sent him for this errand in the first place?

He selects the previous message from Dr. Strange and wonders how the hell he can send one back. Maybe he just inputs a response like the usual way, only this tech requires the viewer to blink into the hologram and allow the complex machine to retrieve their words through brain waves. Very telepathic and eerily proficient.

Simon blinks the message that goes: 'O͙f͙f͙ t͙o͙ g͙e͙t͙ j͙e͙l͙l͙y͙f͙i͙s͙h͙ t͙o͙ s͙l͙o͙w͙ d͙o͙w͙n͙ n͙u͙c͙l͙e͙a͙r͙ r͙e͙a͙c͙t͙o͙r͙. N͙o͙t͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ i͙f͙ i͙t͙'l͙l͙ w͙o͙r͙k͙. I͙n͙ c͙a͙s͙e͙ n͙o͙t͙, w͙i͙l͙l͙ f͙l͙o͙o͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙ m͙o͙t͙h͙e͙r͙f͙u͙c͙k͙e͙r͙ i͙n͙s͙t͙e͙a͙d͙ t͙h͙e͙n͙ e͙a͙t͙ u͙p͙ w͙h͙a͙t͙ w͙o͙u͙l͙d͙ l͙e͙a͙k͙ o͙u͙t͙ f͙r͙o͙m͙ i͙t͙. P͙r͙e͙t͙t͙y͙ s͙u͙r͙e͙ I͙ c͙a͙n͙ u͙s͙u͙r͙p͙ o͙c͙e͙a͙n͙. H͙a͙r͙d͙ m͙a͙y͙b͙e͙. S͙o͙, t͙e͙l͙l͙ m͙y͙ s͙o͙n͙, i͙f͙ I͙ d͙o͙n͙'t͙ s͙u͙r͙v͙i͙v͙e͙, t͙h͙a͙t͙ I͙ l͙o͙v͙e͙ h͙i͙m͙ v͙e͙r͙y͙ m͙u͙c͙h͙. A͙l͙s͙o͙, a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ a͙ r͙e͙a͙l͙ d͙o͙c͙t͙o͙r͙? O͙r͙ a͙r͙e͙ y͙o͙u͙ j͙u͙s͙t͙ b͙e͙i͙n͙g͙ a͙ p͙r͙e͙t͙e͙n͙t͙i͙o͙u͙s͙ s͙h͙i͙t͙?'

And with that, he puts on the same video on loop again but not before enhancing the holographic scope of the screen as he tosses it into the sea. The device is all kinds of safety-proof, and the pixels can still work even when submerged underwater like that.

He backs away several paces from the docks and takes a lungful of breath. Afterwards he canon-balls that shit.

'Diving into a region of the sea where a deadly bloom of jellyfish reside' certainly makes for an interesting obituary.

➷

'S̟o̟m̟e̟o̟n̟e̟ k̟i̟l̟l̟ t̟h̟e̟ D̟J̟!~ S̟h̟o̟o̟t̟ t̟h̟e̟ f̟u̟c̟k̟i̟n̟g̟ D̟J̟!~'

His trashy music video blares like the most attention-starved beacon to had ever been broadcast under water. Mojoworld tech is annoyingly durable that way, because the collective that was their consumer society has ensured long ago that they want to constantly watch their shows and listen to music (wherever corner of the universe these fat fucks could end up in) without the jarring interruption of a faulty device. So they figured out how their tech can survive during extreme temperatures and--most importantly--literally stream doses of entertainment while they're chilling in swimming pools.

Simon's communicator in question was the standard issue Mojoworld provides for all its citizens, even to its captive performers. It's an all-around apparatus for the mindless binge-consumer, which means unlimited, unfettered access will always be guaranteed.

He was so grateful that he owns one at the moment.

But as he moves his arms and legs in an attempt to coordinate his joints properly enough so he can keep up with the strong currents, Simon only realizes too late that he's literally in too deep and out of his depth at the same time.

Ha, underwater idioms. Like they're helping any of this become less terrifying.

Oakland has many beaches. California as a state was sunshine capital (no offense, Hawaii). And Simon had learned to swim, fish and surf since before he even knew how to ride a bike. So he loves nature's water, savors the way it drips from his hair and the salt that exfoliates the skin along with the heat of a sun at its peak during noon. He's scuba-dived a few few times too, the most memorable of which was during his honeymoon.

Here in the unknown sea in another Earth--unequipped with the proper gear, and floating so close to a mass of poisonous marine life--Simon is a little concerned not merely of what other horrors await in the deep blue, but also because he's been holding in a barf that's messing up with how he's holding his breath. He should have fucking hurled back at the docks first. Oh, well.

Meanwhile, the holographic clip of him singing the line, 'H̺o̺l̺d̺ h̺i̺m̺ u̺n̺d̺e̺r̺ w̺a̺t̺e̺r̺ u̺n̺t̺i̺l̺ t̺h̺e̺ m̺o̺t̺h̺e̺r̺f̺u̺c̺k̺e̺r̺ d̺r̺o̺w̺n̺s̺~' comes out distorted and hollow as the image spills, the pixels blinking in and out of focus whilst the video plays incessantly.

Simon slaps his cheeks a few times to get a hold of himself. Soon, he notices that the temperature is tolerable, but he knows he can do better, lest he freezes to death. He outstretches his arms to the sides now as he forces his whole body to stay immobile, save for his legs and feet still kicking and padding away. The many vibrations in the sea's sound channel proved very difficult to sort through, because he's mentally fatigued, physically hungover and emotionally unhinged, and these things are taking a shit on his concentration.

However, he reminds himself that he did not undergo extensive torture in the first three years of his stay at Mojoworld, just to drown and die right now. Simon should know by now how to fine-tune the settings of his powers. He's not some closeted mutant with a troubled past anymore. On top of that, he's foremost a performer, so whatever crap he may feel--whatever ounce of self-doubt that can cripple him--must all be set aside so he can do this.

He's aware of the cold, of the deepening chasm, of the jellyfish that are now steadily gaining speed and heading towards him. The communicator was adjacent from his position as it keeps blaring 'Kill the DJ', but it's also surprisingly buoyant enough (yet another desirable feature) to stay just nine feet away from him.

Simon has had his eyes closed for a while now. The sound of his beating heart grows faint from his eardrums as he dares himself not just to hear but really listen to the other songs that this terrible yet beautiful aquatic world wants to share. Once he gets used to the refraction of sound traveling at a speed only the poetry in his genes can match, he curls his fingers into fists so that the energy could pulsate, just in time as he summons the resonance of his own song (coming from the communicator) to flow through him.

This reverberation causes for lights to appear at long last in hues of silver and gold. They twinkle impossibly like stars in a sky, stretching for a mile at best.

He doesn't see the jellyfish coming but he wants them to know precisely where he is. The only way to make sure his song covers more miles here in the deep blue was to let gravity and air pressure to do the rest. So, Simon ceases moving his legs at once. He's suddenly not afraid anymore.

The further he floats down, the more the refraction becomes more whole for him yet also tricky to manipulate. This must be how whales communicate with each other, even when a thousand miles apart in the ocean.

Simon doesn't need to open his eyes to know his method is working. If he did take a peek, what would greet him was the same bloom of two dozen jellyfish he saw earlier now passing above him--more clumped together than usual--and carrying another creature among them.

From at least three miles away, more blooms of jellyfish begin traveling together, drawn to this mutant's song. They now come from different locations, floating towards the rendezvous point near the nuclear reactor where Simon was.

At this rate, the numbers could easily reach to a hundred within less than an hour, and a thousand more after that, so long as he can sustain the rhythm and keep the lights cascading. He hopes that he could amass an army of these deceptively fragile and luminescent pretty things before the deadline he had approximated catches up.

He finally starts swimming up again, this time while leading what jellyfish are already accumulated to head towards the direction of the turbines. They move much faster now since he's using echoes to reel them in. It was only while doing this that he becomes aware of another passenger involved. The composition of its body was decidedly...human? The mass and density certainly not only give it away, but also the rhythm of the heartbeat. Simon knows how people sound far too intimately to ever be mistaken.

And so he starts to swim backwards, flapping his arms as much as he could manage so he can make a quick turn towards the entity.

#simon dove solos

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secret-diary-of-an-fa · 3 years

Text

A Farewell to Tossers (Or ‘Trump is Out: Hooray!’)

TRIGGER WARNING: COVID; Discussion of Racism; ‘It’s the Great Rape Satsuma, Charlie Brown!’

Well then. Trump is no longer President Elect of the United States and the world breathes a sigh of relief. At last, we can all stop worrying that the increasingly unstable leader of the free world is going to blow us all up with nukes because he mistook the big red thermonuclear button for the ‘send’ button on fucking Twitter! It actually feels nice to go back to worrying about more nebulous threats that don’t come with a fuck-ugly face and a dubious web presence attached. This being space-year 2020, we still have to cower in fear of COVID, the collapse of the global economy and a slow, choking death courtesy of a climate and planetary ecology that are frankly sick of our bullshit, but it’s still good to celebrate the fact that there’s one less dangerous, narcissistic prick with serious political power. The last four years have felt like a deeply disturbing docudrama answering the question ‘What if the Annoying Orange Ever Got its Hands on Real Power’, but the nightmare is over now. Well, I say ‘Annoying Orange’. He’s really more of a Rapey Satsuma, but let’s not split hairs of semantics. The tosser’s on his way out and that’s a cause for delight.

Now, obviously, this blog is somewhat overdue. Sorry, humans, but I just haven’t had the time to compose snarky think-pieces on major news items in real time. I’ve been busy being in love with- and making love to- an amazing woman (who’s also my sometime glamorous assistant over on my Youtube channel where I post magic vids), writing four novels, playing through the recent rash of Crash Bandicoot games and trying weed for the first, last and only time in my life (the only effect it had on me was to make me crave Mars Bars, which happens to me on a semi-regular basis anyway). However, don’t mistake my taciturnity for ambiguity! I am overjoyed that America has finally gotten rid of the psychotic Cheesy Whatsit who spent not quite half a decade shitting on the poor and disenfranchised while stumbling disastrously around the international stage like a very stupid, ill-tempered bear that’s suddenly found itself in the middle of a production of The Importance of Being Earnest. Like most of my American readers and probably every sane, right-thinking person outside America, I greeted the news that he was on his way out with a fist-pump and a little dance of happiness. I might have twerked. I can neither confirm nor deny twerking.

But what lessons can we learn from this election and the fact that Trump clawed his way into power in the first place? Surely the last four years weren’t just the result of one nation’s collective brain-fart and their abrupt end nothing more than a spontaneous return to sanity? Well, no. The main reason Trump managed to grab hold of power was because he pretended to care about the American working classes. He didn’t, obviously: as soon as he got into power, he started taking away the social securities on which many of the poorest depend and dismantling their access to healthcare, because he’s a megalomaniacal rich dickhead. But he pretended to care well enough to convince an enormous quantity of people who felt alienated and disenfranchised by modern politics and- in particular- by a version of liberalism that seemed entirely focused on city-dwelling, self-consciously woke hipsters and regarded everyone else as a joke. A large part of the reason Joe Biden was able to wrest power back from the tantrum-throwing saveloy wanker was because he bothered to go out to the most impoverished parts of his country and remind that them that yes, the Democratic party did know they existed and did give a shit. Admittedly, he wasn’t the best candidate for working class voters- that would have been Bernie Sanders- but he was the best guy to get the message across in a way that wouldn’t seem patronising. So, Lesson One: ignore the gargantuan body of unskilled and menial labourers who power your country’s economy only at your own peril.

The second, related lesson should probably be something along the lines of ‘maybe prioritise rigorous analytical thinking as part of your country’s education strategy from a young age’. Seriously, it might seem obvious to you or I that Trump is a dangerous bullshit artist, but he hoodwinked a lot of people. And no, they’re not just naturally, randomly stupid. Okay, some of them are- nature bestows a fresh bounty of total fucking clods on the human race with every new generation, after all. But the point is that natural idiocy doesn’t adequately explain why so many people voted for a twat who clearly didn’t have their best interests at heart. The ability to recognise predatory charlatans is a subset of the ability to think critically about information with which you’re presented. Both the US and the UK education systems fail spectacularly to give people the mental tools they need to do this early on, with a heavier emphasis on learning rote facts and formulas which- while useful- only help to build crystallised intelligence not vital fluid intelligence (one is just stats and dry information, the other is the skills you need to navigate modern civilisation). Because fluid intelligence becomes harder and harder to acquire as one gets older, teaching people critical thinking skills early on is really important. Neither the UK nor US education systems really start to seriously teach it until pupils are almost adolescent, meaning that by the time they get to adulthood, they just don’t have the ability to peer through the miasma of obfuscating horseshit that surrounds most political candidates and accurately assess who is going to fuck them in the gall-bladder least. Biden was able to win this time round partly because he was really good at putting his message in a non-obfuscating way that helped to mobilise people regardless of their level of critical thinking. That’s great for him, and anything that helped oust Trump is a good thing, but it doesn’t address the underlying problem. The underlying problem, of course, is that, so long as education doesn’t take analytical skills seriously, the political system will always favour candidates with big, simple messages over more nuanced politicians with complex and ambiguous views, regardless of who the most qualified person is.

If Lessons One and Two were about understanding why people voted for Trump four years ago and why the didn’t this time, Lesson Three is our big ‘fuck humans’ moment, because one thing the election of Trump made is clear is that racism is alive and well in modern America. Yes, many of his voters were hoodwinked. Yes, many of them were legitimately alienated. But a significant percentage of them were also just xenophobic, racist arseholes who voted for him because they thought he’d get rid of some Mexicans for them. It’s tragic that these attitudes still persist in the modern world, but they do. Worse still, I’m not sure how you could easily address it. Fear and hatred of difference- even if it’s a superficial difference like skin colour or accent- seems to be hardwired into some people. While we can work to build a world where these attitudes aren’t acceptable, so long as we humans think of ourselves as belonging to different nations and groups, it’s almost impossible to extinguish them entirely. We’re just not at the point we need to be at: the point where we think of ourselves as a species with common goals and needs, not a disparate collection of tribes and interest groups. Trump and his election to power were symptomatic of this problem. His recent de-election might help alleviate it for awhile. However, only time and repeated, positive mutual interaction between different groups of people (on both the global and individual level) can ever cure the disease itself. And that shit’s going to take time. There’s years of genocide and exploitation and war and rivalry and mistrust to make up for and, frankly, it’s still going on, which just makes it harder to drag the human race in the right direction.

Fuck, that got deep. This was meant to be a funny, celebratory blog about how we no longer have to put up with that prat Trump, and instead it turned into a lengthy disquisition on the failure of education and the problems inherent in how humans relate to one another through Tajfel’s Social Identity Theory (that’s the whole in-group/out-group/fear-and-distrust-among-nations-and-peoples thing I was going on about). Sorry, folks, sometimes life is just like that: you tune in for laughs and get punched in the dick with a dry, depressing polemic on our failings as a species. Happy 2020, everyone! Anyway, tune in soon for a review of Crash Bandicoot 4: It’s About Time, which I promise not to turn into a didactic on the role of Nietzsche’s hypothetical superman in a civilisation that relies on the suppression of certain, key choices… aaaaaalthough…

#Secret Diary of a Fat Admirer

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