So, I am a HUGE planner addict. I have multiple kinds, sizes, etc. Most of them are super customizable too! It occurred to me the other day that since you can add or take out pages super easily, a planner binder would make a great Book of Shadows!
This is my a5 planner. It’s a 6 ring binder, button snap closure and pockets on the left inner side. Can you imagine this as a BOS? Really, I am dying to try it.
You can add so much stuff into these
For instance, this is a plastic pocket I hole punched. I keep stickers in it. There are so many things you could add. Photos that represent the Goddess or God, cards from holidays, the wheel of the year, etc.
I know that with bound books I was always afraid of the commitment because I tend to get annoyed and rip things out or I’m stuck hating how a page looks. This way I can take out and put in whatever I like!
I would love it if ‘Iidabashi’ was actually a the mastermind behind everything, just like Junko was behind Monokuma in the previous DR games. Since Monokuma, the Monokumarz and Ki-bo are all robots there is room for a connection between them; like that they were all set up by the same person for example.
Beside that, Ki-bo can tell us just what he wants to, he can just pretend that Iidabashi is someone completely else. Iidabashi could also be dead and his labs and robots were taken over by someone else (just like Monaca took over Gekkougahara’s role).
Furthermore, since it’s all about lies in NDRV3, there could also be a program inside Ki-bo to constantly tell him to lie about his creator, if he wants or not. Aka Ki-bo dying a little inside knowing someone killed the real Iidabashi, yet he has to work for that person, doing the dirty work for them and watching over the students as a traitor.
somehow, in the four-hundred or so years they’ve spent latched to their miserable coexistence, Grendel and Bigby have failed to acknowledge a certain common interest, a shared behavior: one of countless overlooked similarities between them.
upon the city settles an especially warm night in march. a breeze whistles lazily between lush green trees; ripples dance across t– –he still water of the Harlem Meer. an eruption of bubbles breaks around an oblong white shape; Gren, limbs folded under his bo– -dy, sits like a stone in the silt. vibrations in the soil alert him to t– –he possibility of being discovered. breath is held; body flattens, toadlike, in an effort to camouflage himself within the landscape. and he’s very good at this, keeping quiet - immaculate, even - all up to the point when a huge dark paw crushes down on his ribs and it’s only sensible that he, unaware of the identity of his furre- -d perpetrator, exclaims —
“ hey, who the FUCK do you think you’re steppin’ on?”
Complicated – Avril Lavigne, 2002 Take off all your preppy clothes.
Remember when we were all deeply, passionately concerned about whether Avril Lavigne was punk or not? Someone would say she was, and then someone who was usually a sixteen-year-old guy in an army coat would try to explain to you what real punk music was but he wasn’t actually explaining it so much as screaming to the heavens that he was a man and he understood real music and none of this changed the fact that “Complicated” is just, on its own, a really solid song, built like a little glittering stone with a hook that tumbles over the hills. It never gets old, both in the sense that a roomful of twenty-five-year-olds from twenty-five different cities will all bring their voices together as one to belt ACTING LIKE YA SOME-BO-DY-UH ELSE GETS-UH ME FRUSTRATED the moment this song lights up a bar in the afternoon, and in the sense that it actually stands the test of time pretty well as a vehicle of charming youthful despair, as the first sound of an artist no one knew yet back in 2002, as the start of Avril Lavigne.
There’s a lot to examine in Let Go but the thing that strikes me most immediately now is how young it sounds, which is not an insult; and, following that, how essential it is to Avril’s music to understand how often “young” is meant as an insult. Let Go came out when she was seventeen. It sounds like the diary of a teenager; it is, by turns, clever, funny, absurd, pretentious, and sure. It also, more specifically, sounds like the diary of a teenage girl. Most of the songs are about the faceless and generally nameless creature who haunts female pop music, the creature we may refer to as The Boy. In this instance, he might have been a series of boyfriends, or one particularly turbulent individual, but he is, as is also the case in female pop music, much less important than the songs that have been written about him. So it works to Avril’s advantage that he stays vacant throughout the album, solidifying only in poignant, vengeful, and occasionally hilarious detail (till you chose weed over me / you’re so lame).
“Complicated” is, ostensibly, about The Boy but not in a way that’s familiar or especially sentimental. It’s a circuitous bleat of concern for something I remember vividly being a problem in the aughts: the fear that someone, in some moments even more horribly you yourself, was a poser. There was — there may still be, among children — an earthy snarl that propelled you toward honesty. You were determined to be real. It was essential to begin an understanding of who you were and who you might become, trapped as you were in your sad unearthly body, like the sensation of a small boat leaving the harbor or raising your eyes along a staircase at midnight. It’s a feeling Avril understands. She doesn’t dress like other girls. She runs around the mall with boys. She brings the learned coolness of girls already bred to be unaffected (chill out, whatchya yellin’ for?) to something that does cause her pain, or causes her to imagine the possibility of it. If it is possible to feel pain in so small a world as being young, then it is the shock of pain previously read in books or seen in movies and suddenly given life, the idea of childhood absurdly and abruptly thrusted into memory. Even at seventeen, she’s writing like she’s lost a piece of herself and recalling it, the way we look around us no matter what age we are and think, but back then I knew what I was about and I had it good. “Complicated” has a touch of something unkempt because of this, teetering on the verge of ugly, and it expresses weird longings, dabbling in the unspeakable dumbness of teenage conflict but there isn’t a trace of parody in her voice; she means every word. Life’s like this, she says. Uh huh. That’s the way it is.
It’s a real fear when you’re young, that someone will lie to you or choose the easy pleasure of a notable lunch crowd over the weekends you’ve spent in your room. Tangible viciousness feels truer, laughing louder than you should, how we tested all the ways we could be too much or get hurt. It doesn’t mean anything in the end, of course, but when you’re young there doesn’t seem to be any end: everything is happening for the first time and it’s impossible to imagine a future. What a fervent desire it is, to be real. The joys you do know to be true are more solidified and they are often actions: I like you the way you are / when we’re driving in your car. In those days, the things that were real were the things you could touch and you could count on them to return. The threat of something manufactured, or cultivated without your consent, was the trouble of adults and it endangered what it meant to be a kid, not by raising the stakes or by heightening the hysteria you already felt, but by complicating it — by introducing an element you had not anticipated. This was what we called being fake. It was a phrase I used a lot in 2002, flinching in sixth grade as I watched my neighbor with her beautiful long brown hair sitting slightly further away from me on the bus every day until one day she sat next to another girl with beautiful long brown hair altogether and that was the end of that. She’s so fake, I fumed. I meant: She can adapt in a way I can’t. She’s figuring out the necessary tricks of being an adult. Life’s like this. That’s the way it is.
It means a lot of things to be young, but most of the words we give it come later when we no longer are. A great deal of being young is being voiceless. So parts of “Complicated” are laughable: the presumption of a seventeen-year-old feeling she knew enough to say life’s like anything at all, let alone an anchored blossoming world where everyone rides skateboards, skips school, outruns the cops; but being young is like speaking a language no one else knows and that you forget as you grow older, littered with the untranslatable phrases of a Monday afternoon, a speckled driveway, bodies near and new, an impossible primal togetherness that seems like it might never end.
I was careful with my away messages on AIM back then; it felt crucial to assign importance to my anguish with someone else’s words, but wrong to include specifics. Specifics could get you in trouble, even if the rush you felt when someone confronted you was like nothing else and burst into being all colored over with the recognition of the personhood you were testing, the many voices you were trying on: someone is reading what I write. I gave it a great deal of thought and then I went with: You fall and you crawl and you break and you take what you get and you turn it into honesty, and promise me I’m never gonna find you fake it. It sounded wise. It sounded like something I already understood.
Hiiiiii, ev-er-y-bo-dy! Lisia here! Me and my Altaria, Ali, have come to Slateport City’s Contest Spectacular Hall for a bit of FUN! Well then, watch me as I dive right in again today! Dazzling, dizzying, doldrums defying! Lisia’s…Miraculous…Contest Scouting!
Hey, just a heads up! If you have try.pophobia (the name is split up so people can see this), do NOT go into the tags for awhile. Currently it’s filled with triggering spam featuring things like mild bo.dy horror so please be careful!