cant believe we live in a reality where getting a silly iced drink can set you back 7 dollars. it's like they want me dead
I'm a "multiple interpretations of a character are valid" person until I see an interpretation that explicitly contradicts canon and then I start chewing on the drywall.
Me: "they are fictional characters and you can have whatever thoughts or interpretations you like! You may be close to the creators intent, you may not! What does it matter! There is joy in the exploration alone"
Also me: blorbo would not fucking say that
“This character is multi-faceted and has many valid interpretations of them, but there are also aspects of them that are so set in stone that if you take them away, you’re basically talking about a totally different character.”
Lifecycles of Disposable Beings
One of the things I really hoped for in the Guardians of the Galaxy Vol.3 movie that it would remember that Rocket and Nebula were for five years the only surviving Guardians. That they became heroes and helped save the Universe and defeat Thanos twice. Not only for the friendship they developed but also because this movie has shown how similar they really are and how important it must’ve been to have each other. And I got my wish in such a perfect way.
Oh my god. I just saw a video of Elizabeth Olsen saying that the writers of Multiverse of Madness DID NOT KNOW what was happening in WandaVision because it wasn’t out yet at the time of it being written…
And jfc that explains SO MUCH. That movie did NOT feel like a continuation of WandaVision. I don’t even blame the writers, I blame the setup of the MCU.
It’s like they’re all working on the same show, and they each get their own episode but they’re NOT ALLOWED ACCESS TO THE EPISODES THAT COME BEFORE THEIRS.
Yikes. Kudos to Lizzie and to the MOM creative team for incorporating as much as they could, but seriously. That explains so much.
I Am Not Your Asian American Doll: a comic for AAPI Heritage Month 2023
I usually spend a lot of time editing and fine-tuning my comics so that they come across as polite and inoffensive. But honestly, I’m really tired of the way Asian cultures and countries are treated / talked about while Asian people themselves are excluded, and thought it was about time I really let my rage out lol.
id in alt
Valhalla does not discriminate against the kind of fight you lost. Did you lose the battle with cancer? Maybe you died in a fist fight. Even facing addiction. After taking a deep drink from his flagon, Odin slams his cup down and asks for the glorious tale of your demise!
Oh my god, this is beautiful.
A small child enters Valhalla. The battle they lost was “hiding from an alcoholic father.” Odin sees the flinch when he slams the cup and refrains from doing it again. He hears the child’s pain; no glorious battle this, but one of fear and wretched survival.
He invites the child to sit with him, offers the choicest mead and instructs his men to bring a sword and shield, a bow and arrow, of the very best materials and appropriate size. “Here,” he says, “you will find no man who dares to harm you. But so you will know your own strength, and be happy all your days in Valhalla, I will teach you to use these weapons.”
The sad day comes when another child enters the hall. Odin does not slam his cup; he simply beams with pride as the first child approaches the newcomer, and holds out her bow and quiver, and says “nobody here will hurt you. Everyone will be so proud you did your best, and I’ll teach you to use these, so you always know how strong you are.”
————
A young man enters the hall. He hesitates when Odin asks his story, but at long last, it ekes out: skinheads after the Pride parade. His partner got into a building and called for help. The police took a little longer than perhaps they really needed to, and two of those selfsame skinheads are in the hospital now with broken bones that need setting, but six against one is no fair match. The fear in his face is obvious: here, among men large enough to break him in two, will he face an eternity of torment for the man he left behind?
Odin rumbles with anger. Curses the low worms who brought this man to his table, and regales him with tales of Loki so to show him his own welcome. “A day will come, my friend, when you seek to be reunited, and so you shall,” Odin tells him. “To request the aid of your comrades in battle is no shameful thing.”
———-
A woman in pink sits near the head of the table. She’s very nearly skin and bones, and has no hair. This will not last; health returns in Valhalla, and joy, and light, and merrymaking. But now her soul remembers the battle of her life, and it must heal.
Odin asks.
And asks again.
And the words pour out like poisoned water, things she couldn’t tell her husband or children. The pain of chemotherapy. The agony of a mastectomy, the pain still deeper of “we found a tumor in your lymph nodes. I’m so sorry.” And at last, the tortured question: what is left of her?
Odin raises his flagon high. “What is left of you, fair warrior queen, is a spirit bright as fire; a will as strong as any forged iron; a life as great as any sea. Your battle was hard-fought, and lost in the glory only such furor can bring, and now the pain and fight are behind you.“
In the months to come, she becomes a scop of the hall–no demotion, but simple choice. She tells the stories of the great healers, Agnes and Tanya, who fought alongside her and thousands of others, who turn from no battle in the belief that one day, one day, the war may be won; the warriors Jessie and Mabel and Jeri and Monique, still battling on; the queens and soldiers and great women of yore.
The day comes when she calls a familiar name, and another small, scarred woman, eyes sunken and dark, limbs frail, curly black hair shaved close to her head, looks up and sees her across the hall. Odin descends from his throne, a tall and foaming goblet in his hands, and stuns the hall entire into silence as he kneels before the newcomer and holds up the goblet between her small dark hands and bids her to drink.
“All-Father!” the feasting multitudes cry. “What brings great Odin, Spear-Shaker, Ancient One, Wand-Bearer, Teacher of Gods, to his knees for this lone waif?”
He waves them off with a hand.
“This woman, LaTeesha, Destroyer of Cancer, from whom the great tumors fly in fear, has fought that greatest battle,” he says, his voice rolling across the hall. “She has fought not another body, but her own; traded blows not with other limbs but with her own flesh; has allowed herself to be pierced with needles and scored with knives, taken poison into her very veins to defeat this enemy, and at long last it is time for her to put her weapons down. Do you think for a moment this fight is less glorious for being in silence, her deeds the less for having been aided by others who provided her weapons? She has a place in this great hall; indeed, the highest place.”
And the children perform feats of archery for the entertainment of all, and the women sing as the young man who still awaits his beloved plays a lute–which, after all, is not so different from the guitar he once used to break a man’s face in that great final fight.
Valhalla is a place of joy, of glory, of great feasting and merrymaking.
And it is a place for the soul and mind to heal.
There was one of those hyperspecific polls that had an option like “your grandfather told you war stories that he never told anyone else” and now I feel like I have to tell the story about how a spider saved my grandpa’s life in WWII and how my family doesn’t kill spiders because we owe our existence to that One Single Spider
So to set the scene, it's the height of WWII in France and my grandpa—a 6'3" 20 year old upper Michigan farm boy—has been separated from his company after their temporary camp was shelled. My grandpa (who, I have to add, was nicknamed 'the Suicide Kid' at this point because he worked in demolitions and bomb interception and kept taking the jobs no one wanted with the expectation that he was never going home anyway) is scared out of his wits, wandering around the French countryside alone. He has to move at night and sleep in barns and sheds during the day to hide from people who most definitely want him dead.
On one of these days, he finds a farmhouse of a very jittery couple who agree to let him sleep in the barn, with the conditions that he sleeps in the barn loft and if he's found, they disavow all knowledge that he was there. He agrees, because he's exhausted and will sleep in a hay pile if he has to. My grandpa manages to fit all six foot three inches of himself into a feed trough stored upstairs and tries to get some sleep.
However, right when he's half-snoozing, he hears motors outside and sure enough, here are some very angry officers of mixed Nazi and Vichy make confronting the couple saying someone up the road spotted an American soldier walking this way. They wouldn't know anything about that, would they? No, of course not.
All the while, my grandpa—now trying to figure out how to either escape the barn unseen or how to fight off six? seven? eight? people at once—freezes up and waits for the inevitable. While he does, a HUGE spider crawls next to his head and onto the loft railing. For one second, he thinks about swatting it away, but that would risk him being seen and killed.
So, instead, he lays there and waits to either fight to the death or get executed in a feed trough. And while he lays there, the spider starts making a huge web on the railing. My grandpa's transfixed by this thing. He watches her go around and around, building a solid web before plopping herself off to one side and waiting for breakfast. At the same time, the officers finally go into the barn.
My grandpa can hear them searching around, turning over crates and checking animal pens. Then, he hears one say to check the loft.
And then another say, "Don't bother. Look at the spiderwebs up there. No one's been there in a while."
And they leave.
Because my grandpa didn't swat the spider away and let her build her web, the officers thought no one was there and left him alone. They drive off and my grandpa immediately thanks the farmer couple and hauls ass out of there as soon as he can.
After this, my grandpa refused to kill any spider, and his kids did the same. Because if it wasn't for her, he wouldn't have lived and would never have had kids or grandkids. So we owe her one.
There's the man himself. Go grandpa!!
funnytwittertweets
cellars. obviously.
Can't. The cellar is full of Amontillado.
Where? I don't see it
Just down here. Come this way and I'll show you.
I love you technobabble, I love you time loops, I love you parallel universes, I love you evil doppelgangers, I love you bottle episodes, I love you alternate timelines, I love you sentient computers, I love you alien invasions, I love you paradoxes, I love you wormholes, I love you time travel, I love you body swap episodes, I love you hyperspace, I love-
every time someone is like ok make your christmas list im like well suddenly it turns out ive never desired anythign in my fucking life
apple-a-la-mode
this is literally how i feel
Jonathan, between meals probably: “Are you sure I’m meant to eat an entire garlic bulb as a palate cleanser?”
The locals, sweating, trying their best to low-key vampire-proof this boy: “Yes. Absolutely. Very traditional.”
Vampire that’s dirt poor, doesn’t have a sprawling manor or vast riches accumulated by interest. Can’t afford those black leather boots they really want. Travels as a bat to save money not cuz they like it.
Vampire that was super ugly in life so the vampiric glow up just made em a solid 5
Vampire too socially awkward to seduce/compel ppl to feed off them. Has to have their Chadier vamp friends to do it or steals blood bags from the hospital.
Vampire who turned into mist in a steam room and couldn't figure out which parts were him vs water, so he got stuck there for weeks
vampire who's afraid of flying so anytime they turn into a bat it makes them incredibly queasy
Vampires having a “wine” tasting trying out different types of blood, discussing various textures and tastes and stuff like that. But one vampire honestly can’t tell the difference cuz they don’t like the taste anyway.
vampires who don’t like the taste of blood so they have to disguise it by adding artificial flavors (fruit punch, watermelon, strawberry kiwi, NEVER blue raspberry lest it change the color too much and the other vampires judge them) in order to stay properly hydrated
Vampire that was obsessed with skincare when they were human, but now mirrors don’t work for them so they’re constantly looking for ways to see their reflection.
vampire that doesn't really need a familiar because when they were human they were just some working class schmuck used to taking care of their own business so they just pal around with them instead
Vampire that brings a night light to coffin cause they’re to scared of the dark
Vampire that while in bat form hangs out with regular bats thinking they’re also vampires. This goes on for weeks before they realize they’re just normal animals.
Diagram:
More stories from hell (retail) today I was ringing up this lady and she goes oh I want to do part of this on a gift card and the rest on normal card and I go ok and then she hands me a folded piece of paper. I think oh OK it must be folded around the gift card, right? Wrong. It is a folded sheet of 8×11 printer paper with "$40" written on the inside in ballpoint pen. I go what is this. She says a gift card. I say this is not a gift card. She says yes it is. I say this is a piece of paper with "$40" written on it. She says "well it's a gift card." I say it absolutely is not. I am grinding my teeth. She says well I want to use it. I say you physically cannot do that bc it is a piece of paper. I cannot scan or swipe it. I apologize, as if this is my fault, and not because she is completely insane. I hate it here
It's been a hot second since the last time I cried tears of true rage but damn if I didn't come close today
My coworkers were like wow how are you still in a good mood after that my brother in christ after that interaction I went to the break room and took an extra adderall
Oh boy I sure hope my good friend Jonathan Harker has a much better time on his business trip this year than he did last year.
Today came as a surprise, and I salute those who react quickly.
“If this hurts my shows I’m gonna riot” “they better not cancel my favorite show” “this is so selfish I NEED this show” “what about my mental health now that they—“
So you agree. Show-writers are important to you and to the industry and should be compensated accordingly for their important work.