people on here are always saying “we NEED a story where the art of storytelling is abandoned” like ugh literary devices are soo annoying like that wouldn’t happen in real life that only happened to further the story (why is there story in my story) why would orpheus turn around when he was explicitly told not to why would icarus fly so close to the sun romeo&juliet catcher in the rye why are they so earnest why pour your heart and soul into anything why bother why cant all art be quippy logical monotony like my marvel movies there’s a void in my heart bc i refused to fill it and the curtains were blue
“i hate poetry its so pretentious” but then you reblog a quote or a throwaway line and say “why does this go so hard” you are desperate for poetry you are starved for it and u dont even realise you’re hungry
never ask a master origami artist to roll the joint. just watched two and a half grams of 31% indica dominant hybrid get turned into a beautiful hummingbird and fly away into the sunset
I’ve been rereading some of my old travel diaries from my early 20’s, and one of them seriously reads like a slow-burn fanfic. I was on tour with a small indie band and there was a cute guy my age traveling with the band. And we spent two weeks “accidentally” hanging out and sitting close to each other at the merch table in smoky bars and reading Tolkien poetry to each other and taking walks at the beach and sharing food and stargazing and sleeping next to each other on living room floors and giving each other back rubs and talking late into the night gazing into each other’s eyes.
We never kissed. We never even held hands. I pretended to fall asleep on his shoulder once in the car, and one day I gave him a little kiss on the cheek. And that was it. We said goodbye two weeks later and we both thought it was forever and I pined so hard that I threw up.
A month later he sent me an apologetic letter saying that he was sorry for being so presumptuous when I clearly had no romantic interest in him, but that he had to be honest that he was in love with me. And I was like, “What?! He was in love with me this whole time???”
So yeah, we’re married now (celebrated ten years last autumn) but if you’re ever wondering if your slow-burn fic is too slow, or that your characters are too oblivious, just remember me and my now-spouse mutually pining over each other every single second of the day for two weeks without ever saying a word to each other about how we felt. I was reading my own diary yelling, “JUST KISS HIM ALREADY!”
The worst thing about my particular neurodivergence is that my sensory issues have decided that the two worst sensations are my own hair touching me and my skin touching other parts of my skin. Unbearable.
The worst thing about my particular neurodivergence is that my sensory issues have decided that the two best sensations are requiring around the clock stimulation. I need constant skin to skin contact like a newborn. Apparently at almost 400 pounds it’s the equivalent of a bull mastiff thinking he’s a lapdog. I am also a very good boy and like my hair played with.
This marriage is a lot of fun, and we are not the basis of that one Paula Abdul song where she is dating a slightly toxic cartoon cat.
Okay so Victorian erotica is literally the most heinous, morally bankrupt, horrific shit I’ve ever read - but I’ve read a fair bit, partly from historical interest but also because a while back I helped a friend with a university project she was doing about censorship and pornography in 19th century England.
Anyway I need to share with you all the most hilarious line that has ever been written, circa 1887:
I feel like this excerpt is significantly enhanced by knowing that the novel in question is a first-person narrative written from the perspective of an inexplicably sapient flea who lives on Bella’s body, and that’s why the third priest’s penis is described in this way: from the narrator’s perspective it literally blots out the sky.
John Donne would be SO proud, circa 1633
See, basically, a guy is DTF, but the girl is all nervous to sleep with anyone, but he’s like, ‘Hey baby it’s cool, because if you think about it… We already been swapping fluids inside that flea’s lil tummy and now he’s a religious icon for some reason, so really we might as well’ 🦗
I love Magpies, they just hang around your street in their little gangs (called Mischiefs) like feathered miscreants, iridescent ragamuffins, antisocial wee lads in search of bugs.
