It is a good thing that the BG3 team is attentive and we get updates all the time, but where does it end? If they are going to continue changing stuff about the game per request, what will be there left of what they envisioned in the first place? Especially for character traits and dialogue, like making them kinder and more likeable, just because there were two more people asking for it and they happened to see it. I just don't want to see characters shift into generic ones just because of a need to respond to everyone's ideas

🕯️let me find resolution to enact my intention 🕯️

The Pains of Sleeplessness

The following is a radio play I wrote for my RADIO DRAMA class in 2010. I wrote it as I was reading Dracula by Bram Stoker for the first time. It was meant to satirize Bram Stoker. I believe??? I literally haven’t read it since I wrote it. Is it good? I have no idea. Should anyone read it? Again, I have no idea. Why the heckin’ hey am I posting it, then?!! Because it’s been on my to-do list since summer since I started rereading Dracula b cos of Dracula Daily. ANNDDDD I wanted a few months ago, to contribute to the art and hoopla and fun of Dracula Daily, and this was/is still the best I’ve got?!????  I just gotta check it off my to-do list OKAY!!??!??! What is love, what is life, baby don’t hurt me!!!!!

ANYWAY WITHOUT FURTHER ADO (IF YOU ARE STILL READING THIS FAR GOD AND MINA NEE MURRAY HARKER BLESS YOU)

THE PAINS OF SLEEPLESSNESS

BY: MAYO CMEK, 2010

NARRATOR: It was midnight, and I had been walking, sleep-walking in a dreamy spot of haze. It was a shivery night under a full moon and a spot of immaculate, white, snow fall. I had just left the ‘Hairy Monk’ - a pub- although as I am not much fond of the drink, I had only one for myself. Make no mistake, the drink has had no effect upon these truthful accounts of which I am about to report to you. They are facts, and those of only the most gravest kind... [ominous pause] After meeting there with my childhood friend and long-time confidant Nick, I was making my silent way home through a dreary and patchy street of Brooklyn, New York. Washington Irving Avenue, I should think was the name of it, although under the brash hands of certain administration I have been made to understand that for “security purposes”, these locations and names must be altered to protect the privacy of the innocent individuals I chanced across. [cough slightly, as if unapproving] This paltry deed I shall do, and we shall instead refer to Washington Irving Avenue as ... Undead Avenue, which is more than appropriate and less than coincidence, as I shall hope to prove to you in time. And these individuals upon which I less than fortunately overheard are not quite the innocent that they may seem to be... [ominous pause, again.] A sound that most greatly resembled a vicious pounding of some plastic bag by the very mad and the very doomed, startled me from my dream-walking, and I looked up into a lit window and saw the waxen face of a brown, spiky haired young lady. Her hair was in utter disarray and she was standing by the open window. Why the window was open during this cold spell I am at a loss to answer, but perhaps, the ladies inside this room could not feel the harsh winds licking at their white skin, the way the rest of us with the lifeblood in our veins and beating hearts can... [another ominous pause.] BUNNY: Jump in bed, cover my head, Santa Claus is coming tonight. [speaks as if to herself, in a bored voice. Sound of hard body colliding with plastic wrapping that encases a newly purchased bed.] Night, Chinny. NARRATOR: I stopped to listen. Her tinkling voice, soaked in the most sorrowful of tragedies, appeased me as it was carried out the window on the crystalised, angelic Tears of God, each crafted in its own individual shape and harmony. Ah, snow, how it soothes me now to even write of your melodic spiraling. But, to the story, I must not stray. [pause.] It was also that name she mentioned: Santa Claus. It sounded familiar to me - perhaps a business associate, I thought at the time. Oh, if only I knew how sorely wrong I was, and how sorely I would pay for this pit-stopping, as they say in the States, from my good-hearted, Christian way. CHINCHILLA: A good night for you, sure. [plastic moves.] And Santa Claus isn’t even coming tonight what are you talking about. BUNNY: I’m only kidding. CHINCHILLA: He’s coming in six nights though I’m so excited! Bat brought me an early present home last night. I can’t waaaaait to play with him! WAIT. I’m going to go right now. BUNNY: What did you name him? CHINCHILLA: [throughout this speech, we hear BUNNY continously adjusting herself on the plastic.] Well, he already has a name, it said so on his tag on the crate, but I don’t really care. I don’t think we should limit him to just his name on the box, you know? He might have really special powers but we’ll see in a few days I guess. Since I can’t even see him during the day, ever. It’s like... I kind of think his name should be Robert, like after the hottest vampire in the world. [she huffs] I really wish we had HBO and True Blood. SANTA HELP ME AHHHHH. [hear her footsteps run out of the room] NARRATOR: Some people say we do enter freely upon these things, and of our own will, but at this point I was bewitched as if under some supernatural spell. Despite my good-headed nature and shivering fear at the brown-spiky-haired woman’s use of the word ‘vampire’, I could not take a step. The sound of the plastic - assumedly wrapped around the tender girl’s mattress, delivered freshly and neglected in the quiet, mysterious voice’s apparent exhaustion - was irksome on my muffled ears like a warning, and like the sound of frantic spoons scraping against my Grandmother’s fine China in the wash bowl it made my insides cringe. Their words and her face had piqued my intrigue however, and I could not walk away more than I could tell my Grandmother I wouldn’t make it to wash her treasured utensils the next day. Oh, the enchantments women have had over us mighty and masculine men! BUNNY: [plastic shifts, she is sitting up.] Hey, Chin, can your special powers like shut my door and light? Thanks. [more plastic noise.] CHINCHILLA: [from the other room] OH OF COURSE DUH. NARRATOR: As the room went black and the dark headed creature disapparated from sight, I could only see the prim snow blowing ever so gently inside the window - the winds had been snuffed with the light it seemed - and I wondered whether or not the harrowed voice inhabiting the room could feel it upon her brow as she tried to slumber. And what of these special powers, discussed so freely by the two curious girls? And the blood, of the truest red, that was wished to be brought with the aid of this Santa fellow? Santa, who was he and where did I know him from before? These questions plagued my freezing mind, my hat covered in heaven’s feather-like, white teardrops, and I still could not step - my body positioned like the stationary David, forevermore. And suddenly, the light and that ghastly head flickered in the window, back to life. CHINCHILLA: I’m not tired, I slept all day! SOoooOOooOOoo hungover. [she moans as the plastic shifts and BUNNY moves about, frustrated in her bed] And I think I’m going to name my little friend Pattinson. Because he kind of sparkles. Like hot vampires do. I wish I sparkled that would be so cool, and when I go out to hunt men I would like see all these guys and I would be sparkly and how could they look away?! BUNNY: [resigned plumping of the plastic.] CHINCHILLA: RIGHT?! [plastic does not reply.] NARRATOR: This girl posed herself as such a puzzle in my mind, and I fear that I can only now show my deepest regret in the failure of my wit to be called to action at that very moment. She was, I thought at the time, for such an animated and lubricious voice, a very pale and a very morbid looking face. She left the room with that so drained face, and the plastic wrinkled and wrangled underneath her dear friend’s poor, sleeping soul in her absence. The two girls, I thought, looked more painful than my poor Grandmother did, when I most accidentally and severely dropped her favorite purple tea pot onto my sturdy and fibrous foot, - and albeit covered and socked foot, due to a slight excess of hair on the utmost top that my Grandmother finds, in her worn and crude manners to be ‘retch-worthy’. [composing cough, as he comes to find this sentiment as embarassing and unnecessary as the listener does] The speaker forgives her of this, as youth cannot condemn age when he knows not the suffering of age. Still, we bleed. Where was this Santa fool to be when he was so direly needed and so desperately called for? CHINCHILLA: [sound of hard body flopping itself onto the plastic] Whore, why haven’t you taken the plastic off your bed yet it’s been like three days since you got it? BUNNY: I’m too tired. CHINCHILLA: [as she says this plastic bounces up and down with her animated movements.] YOU WEREN’T TIRED LIKE RIGHT AFTER SUNSET WHEN YOU ATE ALL MY BLOODY TOMATOES OUT OF THEIR CAN AND SUCKED THE JUICE ALL UP. You wolfed that shit down, girl. BUNNY: Oh, not really. Not yet. [scratches at the plastic, almost menacing.] CHINCHILLA: SO anyway, Pattinson Robert Cullen is not tired and we are going to go take a walk and maybe pick up some hotties. AW, balls, it’s still snowing out! I don’t want to get wet. Snow, go away! [plastic loosens as she gets up.] NARRATOR: A chill swept over me. A chill that had nothing to do with the divine snow still yet piling itself up onto my hat, almost like a Halo, a small ring of protection, and in retrospect now, I may attribute this holy sheathing to my fortunate escape. But rather, the chill came from the sudden termination of the snowfall, just as the brown-head cried it so. She stepped gracefully, but in this grace there was a sort of inhuman quality, a sort of malice that indulged in its own sleekness. She was at the window now, and I shuddered. [Silence for a short period of 10 seconds.] CHINCHILLA: Oh my God! Some drunk guy is peeing outside our window! Look! NARRATOR: I was not peeing! [SUPER OFFENDED AND DEFENSIVE! then, regains his posure, and tries to be polite once more, with effort, but fails. Voice starts slightly composed but crescendoes as the speech goes on and is almost at an angry screech by “Hell”.] I mean to say, this Madam ‘Chinny’, was - a - liar. The falsehoods that she began to utter gave way to her unmasking, and they will only land her in the dankest pits of Hell! I, a refined man of upstanding valor, would not be caught even tempted by Satan to be relieving myself on the streets, in which the public so often take refuge. It would be a crime, a crime punishable by law. [remembers purpose of story, as he was somewhat side-tracked in his attack of CHINCHILLA and resumes his ominous tones.] And here, I will say, it is a crime. Much like the crimes, oh, the gruesome crimes the missus will commit. The crimes that I, being of such courageous heart, must have been preordained by God to witness and thus bear their splintering, wooden crucifix upon my back; the crimes that are yet to come...[ominous, foreboding, back in his thought-train.] BUNNY: What, oh, wow, cool. [not shifting, the plastic lies still.] CHINCHILLA: Did you HEAR ME?! Some drunk guy is peeing outside our window. NARRATOR: [in a mumble, an undertone.] I still maintain I was very well not. CHINCHILLA: And now the snow’s all gross and yellow yuck. Did you hear me? Okay. I think he left. Or at least he’s crouched behind something like a little hunchback weirdo. NARRATOR: Excuse me, for I must interrupt. I would again, like to recall to the listener than certain words and events and names have been compromised. These words, slanderous words, are not what one first-hand historian would call fact-based. CHINCHILLA: GOD NARRATOR shut your stuffed pie hole and let me get on with the story! It’s my turn to talk. NOW Bunny, alright, alright. I’m sorry, I know I’ll let you have your little time to yourself sleep whatever you want to call it. Good night. [steps leaving. plastic rattles a little and BUNNY finally finds her resting place. All is still. Silence.] NARRATOR: [coughs, indignantly.] The stillness from the room above elicited a morose shiver down my spine. I moved my feet, the plastic sounds which intuited the movements of the body above moved in accordance with my steps. I say again, I was not in movement to relieve myself of excrement of any sort, rather, I had finally begun to understand the hellish fires that burned with the lights above, the lights above that the flakes of God could not even quell. It was then, in my course of circling below, crossing myself - and I am not as of usual a superstitious, flimsy, sort of man, by Jove - then I was able to see. God be with me, I thought. This Santa, I remembered then. I dredged up from my pool of ghastly memories; memories from catechisms and prayers whispered in hallowed spaces of Churches in towns of my travels; Santa was a man who wore only red, and visited the world only a single, grim, night a year. Saint, they called him. Saint of the red-nosed, Saint of the black, plastic bag in which gifts are carried to be given to those devoted to his pagan occult. Santa, was no doubt, a shorthand for Satan. ‘God be with me’, I said as I crossed myself from marble-smooth forehead to sinwey shoulder and back to the heart, the ‘bloody tomato’ that which these women so wanted to possess. These women, hardly can I speak of them as girls any longer, after I had enlightened as to what they were. Indeed, the white and waxen, star-crossed abominations: these women were of the militia of the Un-Dead. And HBO, why, I gathered then must have been another shorthand, standing for Human Blood (type) O. It was, at this point, clear to me what I must do. But before I could enact the plans that were bountifully blooming in my head, I heard the plastic shiver once more, and the brown-haired voice call out: CHINCHILLA: [calling from the other room, the plastic wrinkles softly.] HEY. BUNNY. That Aunt Jemima in the fridge, is that yours? Can I have some? NARRATOR: I prayed. Poor, poor Aunt Jemima, for whomever were her nieces and nephews, they would never be to look on her sweet face ever again. BUNNY: [sighs, and hits furiously the plastic covering her mattress.] CHINCHILLA: Does one hit mean yes and two no? Yes? BUNNY: [hits plastic once more.] CHINCHILLA: WHAT? BUNNY: [hits plastic.] CHINCHILLA: WHAT? BUNNY: [hits plastic, harder this time, with both hands.] CHINCHILLA: WHAT?!! BUNNY: [kicks plastic furiously, hard, like beating a dummy or a scarecrow.] CHINCHILLA: ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT, I get it. Lots of hits means hell yes, take a chill pill. Good answer though. Thanks. Goodnight. [still, sounds of the plastic being rolled over upon and wrinkled and slapped can be heard outside the window.] NARRATOR: I saw the diabolical Miss walk into the room once more, she lit the room and so her face was, light and bright with a fervor that can only be inspired by a spiritual madness. She was about to drink, something dark, something thick, from a red-capped bottle. I had to strip my fine, leather mitten off and stuff it in my mouth to keep from screaming, much like my fine, dear, Grandmother had when I stumbled with my socked feet upon her lower back as she was performing some Coney Island, circus-like stunt she called ‘yoga’. I feel learned in my saying that the horror and sin of the drink the women were about to share - Oh, and mistake me not, for it was blood in the bottle, human, mortal blood - would have tormented any man to histrionics, even I, most lion in heart. Oh, their deviant, zoophagus longings made me want to cry out, screech like an owl out, to a God that I now doubt. CHINCHILLA: HEY. [plops on plastic.] This is so good. It’s like delicious and yummy and mmmm. Thanks so much I’m so hungry all the time every night lately. OH my god, I should see if Rober- [sounds of body hitting the plastic moving wildly, and being thrown about on it.] BUNNY: [makes grring and roaring and howling noises.] I am going to kill you! [plastic thrashes about wildly again and it is all we can hear.] NARRATOR: [still hear the playing around of the plastic in the background.] The flowing, red-head yet unseen reared, and I could look no more. I ran, and I ran, and I ran until my legs could run no more. The thrashing of the plastic and the hard, sensuous bodies atop it were a rattle of a coming death. Coming for me, coming for the ones I loved. And I ran, as any man must do in a position such as mine. I ran, far, to get away from those creatures of the so grotesque underworld in which all men of faith must abhor. [plastic thrashing quiets but does not fade away altogether.] And so here, and of the now, I abhor them; I yet again, cannot leave them. [bodies on plastic makes one more feeble turn, and then all is quiet, silence again. Hold for 5 seconds.] The girls, haunt my dreams. The cold faces and the dark, creamy red that they feast upon trickles down their dream-chins and they never let me sleep a wink. ‘How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.’*

As much as I pray, as much as a man may beg, that these events of this most potent evil had never happened to fall, plunking, onto my head, I must believe that there is a scientific order and purpose to all. Dear Listener, I implore you, take heed of my story. Do not walk the avenues alone, lest of all late in the hours of darkness, and believe with every piece of your innocent and God-fearing soul that these wicked monsters have not died, and will - nay - cannot die. And they will want you, and they will and very well haunt you, as they, every day that I have left on God’s greenest earth, haunt me.

And Grandmother, if you are listening, I will be home around seven, and your supper shall be prepared to sup upon around eight.

*quote comes from Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

hate when streaming services are like.... you can now pay cinema prices to watch new releases at home! not to show my age but if i am watching it on my tv set then it's free??? you think you're an equal to big picturehouse? with no big screen? no big pop corn? you want to charge cinema price to show me a movey in my own house? Honour demands i kill you btw

One massive, legitimate way to improve as a writer or artist or in any creative endeavor really, is to become absolutely obsessed with something and to allow yourself to be weird about it. Genuinely mean this btw.

I once had a landlord offhandedly mention that his mother had set this house on fire before. He and his wife lived on the first floor, and i rented the third.

Apparently his mom didn’t like his wife. So she set their house on fire. The house i was living in.

He assured me that everything was fine now and that this was years ago, just kinda laughed, smiled, and said ‘You know how moms are’

Yes. I know how moms are. I know how fucked up moms are as well. I have known many fucked up moms and fellow children of fucked up moms.

Attempted murder through arson is not typical mom behavior, even for a fucked up abusive mom

Oh, and his mother lived next door 🙃

had a fucking hilarious dream that tumblr replaced the "block" function with the far funnier "glock" function, which did the exact same thing except whenever anyone blocked you a random bullet hole, like a png of a bullet hole, would appear on your blog. discourse blogs were unreadable bc you'd go to the page and the sheer amount of bullet hole pngs stacked over the blogs obscured everything. I woke myself up laughing

Please, for the love of god, please don’t be this person. No matter how long it’s been since an update, no matter how many unfinished stories are sitting on their account, no matter what - do not be this person.

Not only is it insanely rude, but you also do more damage than you think be being such a self-entitled ass about something someone created for free and for fun. “This author” can see what you say.

RIP decency indeed.

I find it curious that people who end up disliking Anders usually list their reasoning as him being snappy. Well, yeah? He is snappy, he is loud, he is fiery, and he doesn't know how to stand down most of the time. If he was not the way he is, he would be another Circle Mage. But that is not really the point, is it? He does not start out as this fiery mage who cannot shut up about anything injustice. He starts out as this jokester even the fans always look back and say "I liked this Anders better". Between the jokester!Anders and fiery!Anders, is there really that big of a difference though? Don't get me wrong, I do see the way years changed him, as well as the merging of course. But who he was and who he is are just a reflection of how he reacts to the same problem he always faced; being unheard. This man spent his entire life trying to make points that never really reached their destination. At first he joked about them, and everybody waved him off. Then he got serious, and he was shut down or ignored. From the point that we meet him, between dead templers, he already looked like he lost the argument about having anyone just listen long ago. So he jokes about it. Now, Awakening!Anders is young, not yet faced the unending taint and darkspawns, he is just starting. He didn't yet see the mess Kirkwall is, didn't help anyone who needs it in a sewer selflessly until drained. Didn't have an ethereal being of justice push him towards righting the wrongs done to his kind. He still had Ser Pounce too, if that helps. And in a way, Karl, of course. But the Anders we see in Kirkwall has seen and done all that. He is now all that he suffered. He changed, he didn't have a choice against it. But one thing did not change; he continued to make his points, and he continued being unheard. And at this point, I think it is already a bit late to hear him out. Because he has been unheard for so long, he feels unheard. And feelings are louder than facts, always. And, yes, he is snappy. He snaps because who would hear if he didn't? He is fiery because he has people to stand up for. It is not just his voice anymore, it is of many more like him. So yes, he is loud, with many voices hidden behind his own. Yet, even then, 'he is just an abomination.'

What are dead man walking tornadoes? :O

it’s a multi-vortex tornado. i dont remember the tribe it originates from (i think it was cherokee), but there’s a native american legend…? saying? that goes “if you see a man in a tornado, you are about to die.”

the most infamous shot of a dead man walking tornado hit jarrell, texas in 1997

it did so much damage to the town it caused the scale that tornados are measured by, the fijita scale, undergo revisions, and it made anchoring buildings in the tornado alley region pretty much mandatory. (it took the entire town off the map. only those who had taken shelter outside of the town or in underground bunkers survived.)

two more examples of dead man walking tornadoes looking like a person are a tornado from 2011 that hit cullman, alabama

and a tornado from 1975 that hit xenia, ohio

edit: it has been brought to my attention that the native american “legend” part of this post was a rumor spread by a documentary.

i have been asked to remove it, but i believe in letting my errors stand because i’m not perfect. i make mistakes

their ship name might as well be theseus the way there's not a single original characteristic left there

not to be controversial bc I know this is like…not in line with shifting opinions on fanfic comment culture but if there’s a glaring typo in my work I will NOT be offended by pointing it out. if ao3 fucks up the formatting…I will also not be offended by having this pointed out…

‘looking forward to the next update’ and ‘I hope you update soon!’ are different vibes than a demand, and should be read in good faith because a reader is finding their way to tell you how much they love it. I will not be mad at this.

‘I don’t usually like this ship but this fic made me feel something’ is also incredibly high praise. I’m not going to get mad at this.

even ‘I love this fic but I’m curious about why you made [x] choice’ is just another way a reader is engaging in and putting thought into your work.

I just feel like a lot of authors take any comment that’s not perfectly articulated glowing praise in the exact manner they’re hoping to receive it in bad faith.

fic engagement has been dropping across the board over the last several years, and yes it’s frustrating but it isn’t as though I can’t see how it happens. comment anxiety can be a real thing. the last thing anyone wants to do is offend an author they love, and that means sometimes people default to silence.

idk where I’m going with this I guess aside from saying unless a comment is outright attacking me I’m never going to get mad at it, and I think a lot of authors should feel the same way. ESPECIALLY TYPOS PLZ GOD POINT OUT MY TYPOS.

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

my mom walked upstairs in her seal skin boots. Fjonka (my rabbit) came running to greet them (her seal skin boots). she sniffed them for a second. nuzzled them, before realizing they weren't breathing. horror dawned on her. she begun to understand she was dealing with something she couldn't comprehend. she backed off, without letting them out of her sight. she STOMPED to let them (the seal skin boots) know that she did NOT like this situation. my mom stomped back. Fjonka stomped harder, exhibiting a bravery and assertedness I had no idea she possessed. mom turned and went back down the stairs. Good job, Fjonk. You sure showed those undead vampire rabbits who's boss.

fucking obsessed with the uni town i live in