I just saw a mouse on my wall-mounted shelf. it is very messy, but theres no way up. I am scared and confused. people like to say that the animals were here first. but thats not true! I was here first, and mice and wasps and flies and moths and fucking STOATS are INVADING my SPACE

We know the Bat didn't witch out, but she's not among the ghosts of Futatsugi's dead magical girls in juriyuna's event, either. She doesn't even get a passing mention. The implication that she survived getting mauled by her former underlings in CR... much to think about........

Every time the dude dog trainer comes in and pisses me the fuck off I remember my dog trainer knows him and doesn't like him and who am I to disagree with a butch with her own business and a training waitlist?

Today on Genshin: after I don't know how much resin, the artifact strongbox finally decided I deserved mercy. Zhongli's build is now complete.

Also today on Genshin: baby's first abyss clear 🎉

Why do so many psychiatrists love to gaslight. Okay, Hannibal Lecture.

If I had a nickel for every time a psychiatrist straight up told me lies I would have too fucking many and that's a problem.

..

the thing that really gets me about TSFS is that it all comes down to faith—specifically, Sarek’s faith. there’s no logical or factual basis for his belief in the transference of katras or in fal-tor-pan, which we’re told “has not been done since ages past, and then only in legend”. but Sarek not only holds this irrational, unscientific belief himself...he seems to have passed it down to Spock! he taught these ideas, based on nothing but stories and feelings, to his half-human son who has never been quite Vulcan enough to satisfy him. Spock then internalized enough of those ideas to act on them in the fleeting moments before sacrificing himself for his crew. (Sarek tells Kirk that mind-melding is “the Vulcan way” before death; however, it stands to reason that this isn’t done for the purpose Sarek has in mind.)

while he might not be the best father in the galaxy, Sarek proves that—like Spock’s friends—he’s willing to try anything to save his son from death, even something that seems at odds with both science and his very nature. and it works! it’s illogical, it’s fantastical, but it works. it’s beautiful.

My brother just threw our cat at me, dumped my $1200 makeup kit from my Cosmo school on the ground and was hitting the powder pallets, and was verbally abusing me

Why?

Because after I woke him up for school I made him wake our mom up instead of doing it myself

you know, i appreciate the work Susan Sontag has done for people appreciating Camp and stuff but i feel like if you are still using Susan Sontag as the authority on Camp in the year of your lord 2023, using notes that were written in 1964, as if the landscape of art and our relationship to art hasn't fundamentally changed since then,,, it's like, you need to catch up babes, a lot of those points are still really relevant, i'm not saying throw it out, but like update your understandings of Camp beyond that one authoritative text that's at this point almost 60 fucking years old. Susan Sontag is not the fundamental authority on what art today is or would be considered Campy, build off of those basics, please dear gods, evolve your understanding of what Campy art today actually looks like rather than trying to apply a prescriptive label from a text that can kinda boil down to 'Camp is whatever you feel like, and you'll know it when you see it because it won't be like traditional art' because the attempt to define it is so wide, calling every non-traditional piece of art campy is fucking pointless and not how anyone is obviously using the fucking label, people are very deliberately talking about one specific feeling they get from the piece of art, and it's got very little to do with aesthetics, at least as far as TV shows are concerned (movies are a different conversation), and much more about presentation and tone and intended effects and what the whole fucking point of the piece of art actually is, which is a lot more than what is afforded to most things considered Campy, like 90% of the shit people call campy at this point is just called campy and then it's left there, because it's a "oh you can't say anything about it because it's campy" like at this point it almost functions as a conversation ender because anyone you're talking to about any aspect can just go "yeah that's meant to be that way, it's campy" and it's like. okay, where do we go from here? should the piece of art not be analyzed as a work of art? does it not deserve to be evaluated in good faith and treated like any other piece of art? i understand the urge to defend the use of the term, as like "oh we're using it because people are misunderstanding art and what it's trying to be", and as a Riverdale-truther (as in genuinely love it as a piece of art and what it says and does, it's not fucking campy i swear to god, none of you fucking know what pulp art is!), and as a TASM2 truther (best Spidey movie after ITSV, and definitely best general movie after ITSV, and i don't care what your opinion is) i understand the urge to want to defend it as camp, but like, what's the piece of art actually doing and trying to say, what are the deeper layers at play? or are you really just satisfied saying something is Campy and stopping your analysis of the piece of art there? is your soul really okay correcting someone's interpretation of a show and saying it's campy and not doing anything beyond that? what does it being campy actually change? what the fuck does it actually do for the piece of art, if the piece of art is even campy at all?

and now for something completely different!! (it is once again that collaboration with @chiropteracupola)

you already know i love you

A crisp spring breeze crested over the hilltop near Teufort Manor, ruffling grasses and skirts alike with warmth and the promise of better things to come. It was saturated with sweet lavender and the tang of onion grass, and Filomena took a deep, soothing breath, letting the dawning season blossom in her lungs, before another explosion rocked the bucolic meadow.

“Do you suppose they’ll hurt themselves?” she murmured, licking her finger to turn over a page in her book, some dense medical volume in Ansel’s native German filled with extensive diagrams and footnotes she could barely follow. Beneath her, Ansel shifted, peering across the clearing. Far off in the distance, Jeremiah and Mikhail were continuing their jovial pyrotechnics; chain-shot whistled and cracked against pine bark, rippling out on the wind, whooping and guttural laughter nipping at the echo’s heels.

“Oh,” Ansel said, adjusting his glasses as he peered over Filomena’s shoulder, “almost certainly.”

Filomena snorted, knocking her head against Ansel’s temple.

The two of them were curled up underneath a sprawling oak whose roots gnarled and twisted into shapes almost resembling waves. Its whorls provided a comfortable place to lie down with a friend and a good book, both of which Filomena was fortunate enough to have to hand. Of course, Ansel bore the brunt of the wooden seating, as she was quite neatly slotted into his lap, but he was hardly complaining, and the good doctor made more than adequate a cushion for such an occasion. Beside them sat two glasses of cider newly dredged up from the mansion’s cellar, sweating in the sun. The scent of apples was barely noticeable over the milieu of wildflowers and the cool water of the nearby river, but its company was not to be ignored.

Cocking her head away from the deafening blast of cannonfire once more, Filomena laughed. “Are we at all obligated to stop this?”

“Not at all, Liebling.” Ansel smiled, wrapping his arms around her waist. “I have every faith they will remain in one piece.” Pausing, he pursed his lips, fighting off the grin pulling at his cheeks. “More or less.”

“Of course.”

Shaking her head with an incurable fondness, Filomena tapped her thumb against Ansel’s knuckles, rough and cracked from years of equal parts caustic chemicals and dirty fighting, before feeling for the twin bands that encircled his middle finger. They sparkled in the afternoon light, new gold as yet untarnished by neither time nor bitterness. While Filomena’s own ring was nothing to sneeze at, all delicate etching imbued with adoration, she admired the interlocking pieces of Ansel’s jewelry. Daniel had made them, so of course they were lovely as they were unconventional.

Her reverie was broken shortly after by the loudest blast yet, punctuated by the splintering of wood and a triumphant holler. When she looked up, Jeremiah was beaming, gesturing to a swath of leveled trees with flailing arms and calling out to her.

“Mina! Mina, didja see that?”

“Yes, darling, I did!” Filomena cried, waving from her spot seated atop Jeremiah’s husband. “It was spectacular!”

“Hallelujah!” Pumping his fist, Jeremiah ran to Mikhail, who was lumbering toward the makeshift camp under the tree. He leapt up into the gunner’s waiting embrace, whooping as he went.

“Hey, Micky, she saw! She saw!”

Mikhail rolled his eyes, but nevertheless swept Jeremiah into an expansive twirl so that his legs flung out in all directions and he looked as though he could take flight with glee. When he touched ground again, Jeremiah nudged Mikhail’s elbow. “D’ya think the Doc was watchin’?”

A rumbling guffaw tore itself from Mikhail’s throat, bounding around the clearing. He ruffled Jeremiah’s hair with a hand wrought from iron, and Jeremiah shouldered him in return.

“What’re you laughin’ at?”

“You are…” Mikhail seemed to consider his words as they drew closer. “Cute. I see why Doktor likes you.”

“Hey! I ain’t cute! Mina, tell ‘im I ain’t cute!”

“Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Filomena grinned, gently closing her book around her finger.

“Agh! Betrayed!” Drawing a hand to his forehead, Jeremiah sprawled across Filomena’s lap, face contorted in mock agony. “By my own wife, no less!”

“I’m sure you’ll live.” Bending down, Filomena pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Immediately, Jeremiah sprung back to life, sitting upright.

“It’s a miracle! I’m cured!”

“A veritable scientific anomaly,” Ansel agreed with a wink, reaching for Jeremiah’s hand and twining their fingers together. “One I will be sure to study at great length.”

“Aw, you flirt.” Succumbing to giggles moments later, Jeremiah tugged Ansel through a gap under Filomena’s arm for a clumsy, beaming kiss. She cast her eyes over to Mikhail, who was settling in beside the three of them, and found herself stifling ungainly chortles as he examined her plight, tangled between her husband and her husband’s husband. Reaching out, Filomena gripped Mikhail’s shoulder like a lifeline.

“Jeremiah, dear,” Filomena choked out through suppressed laughter, “while you know I love you very much, I am also— rather struggling to breathe.”

“Oh, shit.” Scrambling backward—very nearly clipping her nose with his head—Jeremiah disentangled himself from under Filomena’s arm until he was straddling her lap, hands laced behind her neck. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Smiling, Filomena twined her fingers through Jeremiah’s hair, admiring the smattering of freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes shimmered green with the foliage around them, and flaxen hair shone like spun gold.

“You are beautiful,” Filomena said before the rest of her mind caught up, but when it did, she found she still meant it. Ducking his head, Jeremiah’s cheeks flushed, and he reached for her glass of cider.

“Says you,” he mumbled.

“I do.”

Taking a long swig, Jeremiah eventually replaced the empty glass and laid his hands on Filomena’s cheeks.

“Love you, Mina.”

Jeremiah leaned in, resting his forehead against hers, breath fogging against her spectacles. She wanted to tell him she loved him too, but the gentle silence that enveloped them felt too precious to interrupt, and so she simply hoped he knew what she meant, what she would always mean.

Sighing, Filomena began to recline against Ansel’s chest again, before he raised a hand in protest.

“Ey! Save some for the rest of us!”

“Sorry,” Filomena chuckled, shimmying to the side until there was no interruption between Ansel and Jeremiah. Her book had long fallen by the wayside, and she scooped it up as she nestled herself between Ansel and Mikhail, dodging Jeremiah’s stray boot.

“Nice, isn’t it?” she whispered, more to the wind than anyone in particular, watching Jeremiah fiddle with Ansel’s tie, dot kisses along his jaw.

“Да,” came a soft whisper from behind her. When she turned, Mikhail was looking down at the scene before them, expression infectiously serene. “Is nice.”

“Misha, are you talking about us?” Ansel called, muffled under Jeremiah’s bear hug.

Mikhail’s amusement reverberated outward from deep in his stomach, rippling through Filomena and dragging her along with his levity. “Only good things, Doktor.”

“I should hope so, mein Schatz!” Although Ansel clearly meant to say more, Jeremiah pulled him into a crushing hug and abruptly cut him off, the both of them cradled in light and warmth. Filomena kicked her heel into Jeremiah’s thigh.

“Let the poor man recover, darling!” she exclaimed, guiding him back into her lap. “I do apologize for my husband’s despicable behavior, Mr. Ludwig.”

“And I, mine, Mrs. Thornton,” Ansel returned, kissing her cheek. “Really, Vogel, you ought to know better.”

“You two are insufferable.” Groaning, Jeremiah flipped over, positioning himself across the row of thighs that formed a convenient mattress. “Why did I ever marry you?”

“Hmmm, because you love us?” Filomena said, tapping his nose.

Ansel chimed in with a raised finger. “And because you are a man of miserable tastes!”

“Ah, yeah, that’s gotta be it.”

Soft grin spreading across his face, Jeremiah let his eyes flutter closed, resting his hands across his stomach, and a pleasant quiet began to settle around them, guided on the maple seeds fluttering to the ground. The hopefulness of springtime was practically infectious, with the four of them together like this. 

Inhaling long and slow, Filomena tucked her head into Ansel’s ribs, and he draped his arm over her shoulders, slender fingers finding purchase in the brocade of Mikhail’s coat. If she was not mistaken, Jeremiah was already drifting off, heart slowing to a crawl against her legs. Mikhail’s steady breaths worked to lull them all into a timeless, dreamlike state, where the world seemed to turn at a snail’s pace around them.

“I adore you,” Filomena mumbled, uncertain as to whether or not her loves had heard her. Not that it mattered, of course, but then Ansel’s “Süße Träume,” and Mikhail’s, “Спокойной ночи,” and last of all, Jeremiah’s, “Love ya,” reached her ears, and her chest all but glowed with the vibrancy within.

The distant chirp of birds lulled her into a gentle sleep.

Me, who spent several years rotating Bleach characters in my mind and still feels an overall sense of nostalgia and love towards the universe and the characters: I hate Bleach so fucking much do not read this manga

God. It's so exhausting having a fat ass and wonderful personality and correct opinions on everything.

"If I had a penny for everytime I've had my hotel keycard keyed to a strangers room I'd have 3 pennies, and that's too many pennies"

-Virgil

Huwah...

I wanna draw something else...

i discovered stardew valley mods pretty early on playing (but i think i already finished the community center by then) and it irreversibly changed my experience and i still can't tell if it was for the worse or not. like i used the cjb item spawner to get so much gold and got endgame items with it... a few years later i would use the same cheat commands on the same save to have. less gold. to actually have to work towards goals

these dishes are literally everything wtf