i came up with yet a better idea

my favorite new pair of tumblr sillywomen <3

very sad still see the saria/silence divorce headcanon still going around

have you ever tried to consider that they never dated before lone trail because it would be unrealistic with the timeline and the events and also because it would be overshadowing the actual truth of why they couldn't get along

the irony of cesare slutshaming juan for sleeping in brothels had me with tears in my eyes considering his very first scene in the show is him rawdogging a prostitute like his life depended on it...like babygirl we see you!!!

holly black just casually had cardan call jude “my sweet villain, my darling god” and expected me to what??? just move on?????

In talking about Chaucer (p. 74), I said that, in general, puns and verbal connections of sound were unimportant and not to be sought out; and now, you will say, I have been using them to explain cruces in Shakespeare. Alas, you have touched on a sore point; this is one of the less reputable aspects of our national poet. A quibble is to Shakespeare [Johnson could not but confess] what luminous vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures; it is sure to lead him out of his way and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind.... A quibble was for him the fatal Cleopatra for whom he lost the world, and was content to lose it. Nor can I hold out against the Doctor, beyond saying that life ran very high in those days, and that he does not seem to have lost the world so completely after all. It shows lack of decision and will-power, a feminine pleasure in yielding to the mesmerism of language, in getting one's way, if at all, by deceit and flattery, for a poet to be so fearfully susceptible to puns. Many of us could wish the Bard had been more manly in his literary habits, and I am afraid the Sitwells are just as bad.

William Empson, 7 Types of Ambiguity, ch 2 pp 100-101

i'm sorry this is so fucking funny. that pathetic loser shakespeare who loved puns so much it cost him everything, except of course his status as the most famous, most read, most immortal english-language author of all time. but everything else, he lost and it's all because of how weak he was to resist a pun :/ pouring one out for my sad little girly man who could have had it all if only he was better at writing, the thing he is the most famous guy in the world for.

even empson, who disagrees with johnson that shakespeare "lost the world", is like, too bad our favorite poet is susceptible to the thing that made him famous :/ really tragic that the guy whose wordplay we've been talking about for 300 years likes wordplay :///

also i can't get over writing a book about the types of ambiguity and NOT INCLUDING PUNS?? sorry but puns are ambiguous! that's where their juice comes from! imagine liking ambiguity so much you write a book about it but never mention puns except to dunk on them. imagine being a POET and POETRY CRITIC who looks down on sound-based ambiguity! could not be me!!

Artemis

Chell said nothing.

And that was her choice.

But if she had the last word, she’d say:

“Yes.”

“You didn’t ask,

If I wanted to go;

Not that I’m going to correct you.

Because if I had a voice it would be screaming,

I deserve better.

"It’s no wonder the portals are orange and blue,

One behind my eyes and one inside you;

Gateways leading to different parts of the same room

We both know how this puzzle is solved;

Just look away,

A click of the gun and it’s finished.

The sound of the radio echoing after my footsteps.

"I am a predator and these tests are my prey-

That’s what you said. I don’t know what to say.

A huntress? oh please,

You make me sputter in outrage and weak in the knees-

I always knew the cake was a lie.

Don’t worry.

No one was fooled by my act either.

"I am the moon, and I am not.

They banished me there and I have turned it against them.

I love it like a crow loves it’s nest,

High in a maple tree,

Fabricated from plastics and pure poison.

What I mean is, I’m used to bad dreams,

Limited breath, and things which are not as they seem.

"I don't sleep, which is fine

I don't prefer my nights to be restful;

Maybe I should.

But maybe instead,

You could turn off the emancipation grill,

And we could grow seedlings in the companion cubes

So they'll always have someone to sing to them.

"Don’t scrape the floors

Of the vines and trees,

Don’t wash away your scars for me.

I will banish the crows, but don’t ask me

To sing for you.

Don’t look at me like they do,

Like i’m some slice of delicious

Vanilla,

Crazy,

Cake-

I promise, I don’t taste nice.

"Notice how you never use my name?

Look me in the eyes,

Coward, Titan, I know

Your cameras will never let you forget.

A girl could never dream of a prettier headstone."

GLaDOS’s sister poem: Prometheus

a man can literally just exist while being short and i will be shaking cry screaming throwing up frothing at the mouth chewing on the walls with desire

like okay king go off 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍 i want you carnally btw

It really is like my brain went, "Wow, those are powerful intrusive thoughts you've got there. You know what's more powerful? Your desire to see this guy traumatized. Have 1.5 days of maladaptive daydreaming about them."

i do like. dream of a comic where emma and jean team up to kill mastermind. i have no idea if it would be any good but i would like to see it.

just saw a take so bad abt a character i like and actually my cat jusr walked in. i'm fine

VUXisms (Patreon)

writing poetry sometimes feels like you gotta cut yourself open to express it idk smear all your organs all over the page and hope somebody else reads something beautiful. is that like divination the way it's expressed in various places and things? I dunno. poetry never slides off your skin like water off a duck's back. it's from within I think. sometimes you have to tear yourself apart to get at the words and sometimes it just wells up from within and gushes out. always from somewhere deep inside. sometimes it's difficult and horrible and painful but the alternative would be worse. sometimes it's from sheer joy that must overflow into words. I think that's beautiful personally. skin splitting from joy. it happens, I think, to us all at some point. or maybe I'm just a creature of extremes. maybe that online test I did because a friend recommended it is true. it said my symptoms were high. I don't know. maybe it is true, maybe it's not. I read a book once where there was a character named Nathan Hill-and-Dale, and while I'm not nearly as extreme as he was portrayed, in my extremes, I know I'm a fairly volatile person. funny, for most people who see me IRL seem to think that I'm fairly calm. nope, I'm a volcano. watch out, even when I'm apparently calm I might blow up one way or the other. one of my residents' family members said today that I was young and bubbly and she was glad to see it because happiness is the prerogative of the young. a part of me wished I told her. I have actively tried to kill myself once; I have come extremely close to the same actions countless times including yesterday; I would sooner hurt myself than others; if I had my own choice I would simply starve. of course I didn't tell her. sometimes I think I'll never get better. at this point I would consider it a very high chance that I will either die by suicide or end up in hospital following an attempt. not now, of course. but despite my fierce love for my course it has stress associated with it and I think that it's very likely that no psych help on earth would fix my mental health enough for that not to be an option mentally in this short time. I think it's possible to recover from all of the things I struggle with. God help me, I hope it is. the real question is whether I will survive long enough to recover from them. and the answer? I know not. I was reminded of a past interaction with the boy today, where he called my name - I turned - his grandfather, a photographer, was waiting to see if he could get a decent photo, for we were at a church conference and he was trying to get photos everywhere. they were laughing. I could not help but laugh. that memory is tainted now, for he would not look at me now, let alone try to pull such a stunt again. I don't blame him. I don't blame anyone for it. I wonder what would happen if I blocked all my friends on discord; who would seek me out? part of me hopes people would, another part hopes they would not. sometimes I just want to be left alone to curl up and die. it would be easier. so much easier than living, and living, and living. I tried writing poetry just now. it felt like trying to cut myself open, I couldn't get the words out. it only made me feel rather wild. I'm desperate for change, for something. something. what is that something? I don't know. did you know I'm a sadist? I would not in a public place express the thoughts that led me to that conclusion. but I am. I wish I wasn't. there's an obvious solution to that. quick, and easy. so easy. too easy. I tried writing poetry, and then instead of writing anything coherent, I wrote this.

doctors and nurses should be forced to work in retail before being allowed anywhere near patients